


Rabbit's Foot

by JenniferNapier



Series: Rabbit's Tale [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Bonding over books, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Eric (Good Omens) - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Build, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Art of being Human, The Bentley - Freeform, Wings, bunny demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21520429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: Eric the Disposable Demon discovers the truth about Aziraphale and Crowley's body swap. So, naturally, he blackmails them to be his friends and teach him how to fit in on Earth. By the end of this three-part story, they all learn a lesson on friendship, love, and what it means to be human at heart.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Disposable Demon, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Disposable Demon
Series: Rabbit's Tale [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580242
Comments: 167
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely love Eric the bunny/disposable demon, and I just had to write a fic about him befriending the ineffable duo. Turns out, what was once a ficlet grew into an epic three-part saga. I hope you like words. The first two parts are full of fluff and drama, while the last part is full of angst, feels, and drama.

Despite A.Z. Fell’s best efforts, his bookshop remained more or less an attraction to guests of the curious, time-taking, and persistent nature. Though he’d done well to build a reputation of a rather stubborn bookkeeper over the past three-hundred some odd years, he still found that at the crux of business hours a good handful of patrons (who were mostly didn’t-know-better tourists) couldn’t help themselves from wandering into his ‘business.’ They waded through his collection and haggled for prices, often to no avail, as they quickly learned that his friendly smile was a misleading facade to his uncompromising character. 

He’d learned to regard the daily activity of safe-guarding his books as a kind of _sport_ or _mini battle_ \-- the kind in which passive aggression was equipped as a weapon of minuscule and harmless proportions to combat customers’ monetarily-justified thievery. In some small way, this game of being politely unhelpful to his patrons (which Aziraphale had both invented and mastered) allowed him to practice his natural angelic talent for manipulation.

Though, ‘manipulation’ was not a very nice nor accurate word for it. He truly believed he was helping his guests by persuading them to ‘choose’ a more fitting book that they’d surely like better than the books _he_ liked best.

The angel had become quite good at winning this game of his, and every time a customer insisted on walking out of his shop with a _particular_ rare and precious book in hand, they’d always ended up clutching one of the _other_ books-- the books he didn’t much care for, and which were not so rare and precious. They were copies of books that only _seemed_ rare and precious-- books that he collected for the sole purpose of using as red herrings to protect his treasured ones from the grubby, irresponsible hands of greedy humans.

God help the poor soul who would ever try to _steal_ one of his books.

Usually, and since the majority of his customers were foreigners (the locals had learned long ago how fruitless a shopping trip to his book store was) all it took to send the humans on their merry way was some chit-chat about London and some enthusiastic recommendations of local eateries and sweet shoppes. He had no shortage of suggestions nor maps to help redirect them, though these days they often pulled out a cellular device and found it quicker than he did-- which still amazed him-- and before long the patrons were on their way to an endorsed place to dine, bookless.

This day, another kind of foreign visitor entered his shop.

The visitor’s hair was both the texture and color of charred wool. Two elongated tufts sprouted cloud-ward as if they had been styled by the affection-less tug of a vulture’s greedy beak. A faded blue scarf rested around the shoulders of his roughened jacket, appearing as if it had suffered through quite a ruthless ringer. If his clothes had ever been given a wash (which Aziraphale heavily doubted) then they surely had been placed through the ‘utter turmoil’ setting, not ‘gentle cycle.’

Aziraphale recognized only one thing about the visitor; his scent. The scent was that of otherworldly smoke. The scent of ancient, burned, once-Heavenly blood. It was the scent of a demon. But he was not the demon who was welcome here.

The newcomer strode in as confidently and curiously as any human would have, looking up to take in the sight of the shop's second floor above the compass-marked ring of vacant space in the center of the building. It was the largest clearing in the shop, as every other corner and walkway was crammed with furniture and shelving overflowing with old artifacts. The unfamiliar demon’s brown eyes passed across those things too, but he was not so much looking for something as he was simply taking it all in, as one did in a new environment.

Then he saw Aziraphale across the way, and forced some kind of unconvincing smile in greeting. Aziraphale closed the book in his hands and placed it back upon the shelf where it belonged. His focus was firmly on the demon, who had approached the register’s desk and folded his gloved hands upon it in waiting.

The angel came to meet him at the desk, eyeing him warily. With every step, Aziraphale calculated how many humans were currently in his shop, where they were currently browsing, where the nearest exits were in relation to them, and the distance between them and the demonic visitor, which no one else had taken any notice of.

“...Can I... _help_ you?” the angel offered cautiously, knowing it was a strange thing to say to a creature of his unholy type, but also knowing that the best course of action at the moment was to ‘play human.’ His warm, warning tone heavily encouraged the demon to do the same.

Upon closer scrutiny, the demon did not smell _that_ bad-- which meant that he did not identify as anything extraordinarily _low_ on the underground totem pole of demonic hierarchy. He was nothing akin to a Duke, that was certain. He was very likely a lesser demon than Crowley, and that assuaged some of Aziraphale’s alarm.

Aziraphale attempted to keep his expression neutral and somewhat possessing an authoritative confidence. But his brows couldn't help setting like creased cement as the demon responded to him with a certain level of politeness-- and an unexpectedly childish eagerness.

“Um, I hope so. I was wondering if you had a copy of, ah….” The demon slipped two fingers into his tattered coat pocket to fish out a yellowed piece of paper that looked as if it had seen a frightful storm. He read aloud from the paper, “' _Phantasmagoria and Other Poems_ ,’ by _Charles Lutwidge Dodgson._ ”

“...Lewis Carrol.” Aziraphale recognized, his expression simultaneously softening and hardening with perplexed awe. If this was part of ‘playing human’ and appearing harmless, then the demon was certainly doing an admirable job. The angel eyed the note from afar, wondering about its source and purpose.

“That’s right.” The demon’s lips twitched nervously as he pocketed the note again and appeared somewhat uplifted that the bookkeeper was familiar with the author. Not that it should have been any surprise at all.

“...Yes, I’ve a copy.” Aziraphale hesitantly gestured upwards, ensuring the movement was slow and non-threatening. “Up the stairs. West Wing. Top shelf against the wall, you’ll see it beside _‘Alice_ ’ and the… well, _literal_ looking glass,” the placement of which was entirely accidental, on Aziraphale’s part.

The demon’s lips parted further in a smile, and he executed a small bow-- quickly realizing that he was bowing to an _angel_ , and should never. “Right, thank-- ah, I’ll be to the West Wing, then.” Awkwardly, he departed, skirting around the desk towards the stairs. Aziraphale watched him go, puzzled.

Did that creature just… _thank_ him?

Aziraphale hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected that at all. Rather, he’d expected a _threat,_ either blatant or clandestine. He’d expected that he’d have to perform a quick miracle to get his human patrons out of the shop in time before it erupted in Hellfire. And he expected-- in the worst case scenario-- to have to grab for a pen and shape it into a sword.

All of those things would have been alarming, but perhaps what was _most_ alarming was the fact that _none_ of that had happened. Instead, the totally unexpected had happened, and he was still stunned by it.

After hesitating, Aziraphale staggered toward his shop phone, at a loss for what else to do and keeping his gaze toward the stairs the whole while. With a discreet snap of his fingers, and a minor yet nonetheless forbidden tampering of free will, his human patrons suddenly desired nothing more than to leave his bookshop that instant. It was a trick he often contemplated performing, but disciplined himself enough to reserve for emergencies only.

_Was_ this an emergency? He turned his furrowed brow to the Upper West Wing, where nothing dreadfully mischievous was happening, yet. By the time the angel had the phone to his ear and had finished punching in a number, his shop was empty save for the visitor upstairs-- who had not noticed the humans’ departure and was quietly perusing _‘Phantasmagoria and Other Poems.’_

The phone did not ring for long.

“Hello dear, nothing wrong.” Aziraphale hurriedly greeted, attempting to establish a calm conversation off the get-go. He failed. “--At least, I don’t think so.” he winced, only being truthful. “But, ah… well, there’s another demon here.”

_“WOT?”_ he heard Crowley gawk in alarm from the other end. _“WHO??”_

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him before.” Aziraphale turned to look toward the Upper West Wing again, keeping his voice low.

“HASTUR?”

“D’you think I’d have gotten this far if it were Hastur?”

“DAGON?”

“No, no, a _new_ one.” the angel repeated, patting his free hand in the open air.

“A _NEW_ ONE?”

“I told you, I’ve never _seen_ him before.” Aziraphale remained as patient as he could, through the stern look on his face could have made a child whimper. “Now will you please calm down?”

“What’s he doing?” Crowley asked more calmly, doing his best to obey his friend despite every alarm bell ringing in his bones.

“He’s browsing the books.”

“BROWSING THE _BOOKS?”_ Crowley erupted, enunciating his plosives as if the idea of another demon browsing the angel’s precious books was the most terrible of crimes.

“Yes, but he’s not causing trouble or anything.” Aziraphale emphasized, touching his fingertips to his temple and then shifting his feet with another glance upstairs. The angel ignored Crowley’s distant bark of _“Yet!_ ” and admitted, “I… I don't know what to do. It’d be _rude_ to ask him to leave when he hasn’t _done_ anything.”

“‘ _Rude_ ,’ eh? It’d be ‘ _rude_ ,’ would it?” Crowley was on one of his passionate tangents. “You know what’s _‘rude’_ is a demon marching straight into your bookshop to make a _threat.”_

“But he _didn’t,_ exactly--”

“You may be too _‘good’_ to be _‘rude,’_ but I’m _not._ Put the bloody phone down.”

“What?”

“I said: put, the phone, _down._ But don't hang up.”

Aziraphale removed the device from his ear for only a moment before replacing it against his head and asking, “Why? What are you going to do?”

_“Just put the thing down on the table.”_

_“Alright.”_ Aziraphale grimaced in confusion and awkwardly set the thing down on the table as if it were very fragile and about to explode. “It’s down,” he called to it. The angel stepped back in alarm as black particles began to buzz out from it like flies. The digitized particles quickly coalesced into the form of his fiendish friend, who haphazardly knocked stacks of books and papers off the desk as his lanky self materialized upon the desk’s surface.

“Good Heavens, you’re like a genie in a lamp!” Aziraphale fussed, astounded by the unfathomable feat.

Anthony Just-A-J-Really Crowley abandoned the desk to stumble to his feet and glance over the angel. Upon noticing nothing amiss, he stormed past the bookkeeper while demanding, “Where is the bugger?”

Aziraphale was still stunned, whirling from the phone to the demon and then back again. “Since when can you do that? And how come you’ve never showed me before?”

“I save it for emergencies,” the redhead growled, looking around and tasting the air. “But never mind that, where’s--” Crowley didn’t need to finish the question, nor wait for an answer. He knew a demon when he smelled one. With a single flap of his revealed wings, Crowley pounced up to the second floor.

* * *

The lesser demon was effectively disturbed from his humble perusing of _‘Phantasmagoria and other Poems.’_ He turned with widened eyes, closing the old book to hug it to his chest and back away as the redhead stormed forth.

_“YOU!”_ Crowley snarled, marching towards him with a sharp point of his painted nail.

The lesser demon bumped against a shelf, rattling the books and trinkets it held. “H-hello, Mister Crowley, f-fancy seeing you h--”

Crowley was hissing in his face in the next instant. _“What game are you playing at?"_

The visitor shrank under Crowley’s burning stare, which seemed to singe the lesser demon even from behind the barrier of the redhead’s sunglasses. “I… n-no game, I just wanted to find a book.” 

He flinched as Crowley snatched the book from his clutch, handling it just roughly enough for Aziraphale-- who had followed behind his friend-- to scold him with a distressed tone.

Crowley ignored the angel, only holding the object aside for the bookkeeper to reclaim and examine for damage. “You don't read books!” the redhead hissed to the intruder. “No demon reads books!”

“I-I do.” The intruder glanced between the two of them, nervously fiddling with his ragged blue scarf as he stammered, “I read everything down in Hell, a-all the charts and plans and files and... blueprints. Earth has far more interesting things to read.... I took a peek at some during the Apocalypse, uh, w-when we were tracking the Antichrist.”

“Oh, you _did,_ did you?” Crowley mocked, swaying his body and tilting his head as he did so. “Dear old Hastur gave you some time to _relax_ and _enjoy_ what the surface had to offer, did he?”

“N-not exactly, one of me managed to slip away at the time.” The visitor looked rather uncomfortable, trapped between the bookcase and an angry demon.

Aziraphale remained behind Crowley’s right shoulder, passing his fingers over the cover of _‘Phantasmagoria and Other Poems_.’ He repeated curiously with a lifted squint, _“One_ of… you?”

“He can multiply himself,” Crowley sneered. “Makes for a real good _spy,_ this one. How many of yourself have you got skittering around Soho, bunny boy?”

“None, I have no duplicates left at the moment,” the lesser demon admitted sheepishly. “Duke Hastur doesn’t know I’m up here.”

“I don’t believe that for one second,” Crowley growled in his face.

With dipped head and set brows, Aziraphale watched them the way that a judge quietly watches a prosecuting attorney interrogate a suspect in his courtroom.

“It’s true!” the visitor protested. His glare was framed with makeup-heavy lashes. “I’m _not_ spying, I just wanted a _book!”_ His dirty hands balled into fists at his sides as Crowley stepped closer.

“That’s another **_lie.”_ ** Crowley challenged with his teeth bared, unafraid of engaging in a fight. It’d be a swift one, he’d make sure of it.

“Is it a lie?” Aziraphale interrupted their staring match with a twinkling innocence in his light tone, completely dispelling the tense air.

“Of course it is.” Crowley hesitantly glanced back at the angel, and only for an instant before glaring at the intruder again.

“Why?”

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale once more, then reluctantly stepped away from his target to partake in a side conversation with his friend, forcing his own voice to soften when addressing the angel. “What do you mean, ‘why?’”

“Is it a lie because it’s physically impossible for him to tell the truth?” Aziraphale inquired logically. Then, with a hint of his own gentle challenge, he asked, “Are you the _sole_ demon capable of honesty, Crowley?”

_“....Aziraphale,”_ Crowley groaned, begging him not to play God’s advocate.

“Well, are you?” The angel waited patiently for the answer-- which he already knew.

After a great internal battle, Crowley spewed a perturbed, _“No,_ but--”

“So it _is_ possible that he may be telling the truth.” Aziraphale finalized.

“ _Why_ would he tell the truth?” Crowley shrugged grandly.

“That is not for us to speculate, nor does any answer change the fact that he is perfectly capable of being honest.” Aziraphale preached, pointing at the visitor, who no longer looked so uncomfortable and was no longer trapped against a bookcase.

Crowley was defeated in the argument. It was obvious in the way that he directed his irritation at the far wall and stiffened.

Aziraphale stepped around his friend to flash a tight smile at his visitor, half-heartedly apologizing for Crowley’s behavior, as was appropriate of a host. Crowley tensed as Aziraphale approached the intruder.

The lesser demon no longer balled his hands at his sides. Instead, he placed them together in front of himself to nervously massage his own partially-gloved fingers through his scarf. To both Hell-dwellers’ surprise, the angel calmly offered the book back to the visitor. “There you are.” Aziraphale nodded, his smile suitably angelic and well-crafted. “Now off you go.” he encouraged, gesturing with an open palm toward the stairs. Hesitantly taking _‘Phantasmagoria and Other Poems,’_ the lesser demon glanced at it, then the bookkeeper, and then slunk away with wary brown eyes on Crowley as if he were a rabid dog about to be unleashed on him just before he could reach the door. But Aziraphale did not give any signal to sic his attack dog on him, and the visitor fled down the spiral staircase and out the door before the angel could change his merciful mind.

* * *

Crowley curled his lip with a slump of his shoulders. “You didn't have to give him one of your _books!”_

“That’s not a rare one.” Aziraphale murmured lowly. “It’s no trouble.” Aziraphale smoothed down his jacket, pardoning a less than pleased glance at his friend. “And neither was _he.”_

_“Yet.”_ Crowley reminded him exuberantly, muttering, “He was probably scoping out the joint.”

_“You_ were the one who rudely invited yourself inside and caused a disturbance.” Aziraphale boldly pointed out.

Crowley’s expression was almost as broken as his heart. “I was-- _backing you up_!” he whined as if he’d irreparably tarnished his evil reputation for doing such a selfless thing-- and for an _angel,_ of all beings.

“I didn't call you for backup.” Aziraphale shook his head, still fiddling with his external attire while simultaneously composing his internal thoughts.

“Then what _did_ you call me for!?” the demon demanded loudly, appalled by his friend’s unusual attitude, and masking his own hurt with mild anger.

Aziraphale glanced over at him, then paid his bow tie one last ounce of his attention. After hesitating, he sheepishly answered. “I just thought… that you should know. Or… if you’d caught any wind of something going on… or why he might have come here….”

“It was an _intel_ call?” Crowley translated bluntly, bobbing his head with an exasperated expression. “That’s _all?_ Nothing more?” He didn’t believe that excuse.

Aziraphale was caught. “....Well, I didn’t expect you to just _pop_ over like that.” he gestured, flustered. His hands came to rest on the edges of his open jacket. “At a moment’s notice, all gun-ho and at arms.”

Crowley studied him for a moment, discovering the insecurities that fueled the angel's manner. The redhead’s voice was low and gentle when he spoke next, shaking his head with a tilt. “Of _course_ I’d do that. We’re a _team,_ Aziraphale.” 

The angel slowly met his gaze, his expression undecided between unsure, apologetic, and touched.

Crowley shrugged, blinking beneath his glasses. “Mess with _one_ of us, mess with _both_ of us.” Waving away any sentiment in his words, he shrugged deeper. “Y’know.”

Aziraphale softened. “...I suppose I’m not... _accustomed_ to having a… teammate like that, is all.” A teammate that was actually there for him, to fervently support him with no hesitation at all. A teammate that would break himself into tiny pieces and travel through the very airwaves for him.

“I shouldn’t have been cross with you.” the angel apologized humbly.

“S’alright,” the demon accepted his friend’s words with heavy disregard and a wandering gaze. He wasn't interested in apologies, and he wished no guilt on the blonde. Crowley’s concerns lay elsewhere.

“Well, he’s gone now,” Aziraphale said with a great sigh and a small restoration of his smile. “I think you did well enough to scare him away from the thought of ever coming back here.” he complimented earnestly, and with humored gratitude. “I doubt we have anything to worry about.”

“Hastur sent him, I just know it.” Crowley mumbled, appearing as if he was expecting another foul demonic scent to waft into the room. He stalked to the banister and scanned the rest of the bookshop, waiting for the worst.

“Why would Hastur send him to my shop?” Aziraphale asked, stepping over to join him.

“To spy.” Crowley brewed, clearly disturbed by the unexpected visitor.

While the demon eyed everything in the building, Aziraphale only eyed him. “If that’s the case, then what has he gathered?” the angel asked rhetorically in a calm, knowing tone. Aziraphale answered himself, soothing his friend with a fond smile. “That _you_ are only a call away, and that you’re more than eager to fight by my side against whatever surprises they throw at us.” 

Crowley tore his worried gaze off the bookshop to look upon its keeper. The demon remained quiet and still, and he was not often quiet and still.

“As you said,” Aziraphale’s blue eyes twinkled as he lifted his chin proudly. “We’re a package deal.” With an air of playful drama in his declaration, he made a challenging face. “They’d be damned _fools_ to mess with the mighty _Crowley and Aziraphale.”_

Crowley shook his head but he couldn’t prevent a smile from snaking its way across his face. _“‘Mighty,’_ eh? We’re _‘mighty’_ now, are we?” Prevent the end of the world once; gain an ego bigger than the entire galaxy. That was what Aziraphale had done. It was devilishly adorable.

Aziraphale’s smile shone brighter than the sun, but he dropped the playful act and finalized warmly, “We showed him no weakness. And I, for one, think he was telling the truth.” He moved away from the banister as a priest moved away from an altar boy after having delivered sage advice.

Crowley rolled his fiery eyes behind his shades. _“Of course_ you do. You’re programmed to see the best in even the _worst_ of people.”

“Then I can’t help it, can I?” Aziraphale retorted, reverently leading the way down the spiral staircase. “If I’m ‘ _programmed.’”_

“Corruption will fix that.” the demon chirped behind him, running with the technology metaphor. “What _you_ need is a malware infection.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a nasty computer virus.”

“Sounds unpleasant.” Aziraphale began manually closing the register, glad to have an excuse not to stay open for business any longer. “Isn’t that what firewalls are for?”

Crowley rested an elbow on the desk, waiting for the angel to finish counting pounds with a sly smile. “Wull, I’ll have you recall, I've been known to drive right _through_ firewalls.” His teeth revealed themselves beneath his grin. “Especially to get to you.”

Aziraphale closed the register drawer and lifted his head, coolly enjoying the banter, and feigning indifference to the demon’s sweet words. “Are you saying you’re going to eventually corrupt my judgement, or are you simply flirting using computer terms?” 

“Both.” Crowley claimed proudly, a small laugh hitchhiking on his next exhalation.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but glow. The two of them spent the rest of the day out; dining, laughing, and continuing to flirt-- with not a single additional worry about their unexpected visitor.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day was a slightly chilly and heavily overcast one. A half-hearted storm had sprinkled through the city overnight, though the clouds closed themselves up promptly by the approaching sun. They lazily passed over the endless sky, inching away from the evidence of their shower before the sun could reprimand them for it. The concrete and brick landscape of Soho remained damp and darkened by the water, which enhanced every smell in the city, pleasant and unpleasant alike. The sewers and trash as well as the lush trees and grass had become saturated with the rain.

The townsfolk passing through the streets were the only elements of the picture that were dry, and there were far fewer of them wandering about than yesterday. That bode well for the bookshop. Aziraphale was among them, strolling back to his shop after a morning run to the bank to deposit his meager earnings from yesterday. 

The angel had little need for money. He could produce it with a flick of his wrist, and he had few living expenses. Aziraphale regarded fiddling with actual money as a fun pastime, like accumulating and exchanging colored paper bills in a game of Monopoly. He’d studied economics at one of the many universities he’d attended throughout the centuries, and enjoyed acting as a revolving door for wealth of various proportions. Charity was God’s work, and it genuinely made him happy to contribute to a family or hospital in need every so often with the honest pounds he’d reserved.

He also enjoyed tipping rather generously at restaurants, and therefore the restaurants enjoyed him.

“Excuse me!”

Aziraphale halted, recognizing the water-soaked (yet still fire-born) scent that belonged to the voice. Turning, he furrowed his brow beneath the brim of his hat as his unexpected visitor from yesterday crossed the empty road to approach him.

The stranger jogged to a stop and held out an object bound in a plastic trash bag.

“Here’s your book back. I finished it.”

Aziraphale hesitantly took the object and peeled back the plastic that was covering it. It was  _ ‘Phantasmagoria and Other Poems.’  _ The book was in the same condition that it was when it had been given to the visitor, which was a rather nice condition, and completely dry, though the same could not be said for the damp demon. The makeup around his eyes appeared more runny than before, as if the rain had pulled the ink Hell-wards. His hair was likewise flattened by the weight of the moisture, though his two ear-like tufts remained erect.

The angel eyed him, slow to process the fact that the demon had the decency of thought to protect the book from the storm overnight. Which meant the demon had remained outside overnight. On the surface, and not down below where he belonged-- where he would have been dry and certainly warm.

Aziraphale murmured suspiciously, “Read it already, have you?”

The demon nodded and pocketed his hands tightly in his ratty coat.

“Did you enjoy it?” the angel asked, getting at something.

“I found it quite interesting, yes.”

“Can you recite your favorite passage?” Aziraphale outright asked, curious as to if the demon had actually read it at all.

The demon nodded again, glanced to the Heavens in recollection, and then grinned with a small huff of fondness. “Oh, in the  _ third  _ canto, when the ghost says,” He drew out his hands to gesture lightly, reciting in pattern, “‘It’s very well for kings to fly above the Earth, but Phantoms often find that wings, like so many other pleasant things, cost more than they are worth.”

Aziraphale watched him intensely, a glow returning to his cheeks as he smiled. “You did read it.”

The demon pocketed his hands shyly again.

“That  _ is  _ a good passage.” Aziraphale agreed with a tilt of his head, charmed thoughts floating about his mind. It was fascinating to him that  _ that  _ was the creature’s favorite line, and it made the angel wonder.

“I did have… one question.” the demon winced apologetically. “A… a part I wasn't quite clear on.”

Aziraphale nodded kindly for him to go on and ask it.

“The man  _ missed  _ the ghost, after he left.”

“Yes. He did.”

“Why?”

Aziraphale had expected a question about old English vocabulary or reference-- not the most simple of concepts within the poem. “….Well, because they became friends.” he answered plainly.

The demon was still curious. “How?”

Aziraphale shrugged and turned out his bottom lip. “Just by talking to each other.”

“Only by talking?” the demon was skeptical.

“Yes.” Aziraphale remained patient and intrigued. “Happens more often than you’d think.” He passed his fingers across the cover of the book. “You see, the ghost explained so much to the man about his point of view, how the Sprites and Phantoms go about their haunting business, their rules of etiquette, and other details... so the man came to understand him.”

The demon was mesmerized, piercing together carefully, “And they became friends.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiled, reminded of an innocent child who was just discovering the wonderful secrets of the world. “He got to  _ know _ him, you see, and so the ghost was no longer a stranger.”

“Oh. That makes sense. Funny how that works.” The demon grinned, finding his earlier confusion rather silly. He understood, now.

Aziraphale’s twinkling eyes passed over him fondly. “It is.” After a moment, he extended the book forward. “Keep it. As a gift.” 

The demon took it with more confusion and hesitance than the last time the angel had given him the book. “Oh, well... thank you.” he mumbled, stunned-- and not by fear this time. The plastic wrapping crinkled as he clutched it.

Aziraphale pocketed his empty hands and shifted his stance, continuing the conversation by requesting what was perhaps harmless payment for the gift. “What is your name?”

The demon paid it easily enough. “Eric.”

“Eric.” The angel repeated, making a face. “That’s a very…  _ human  _ name. Why did you choose it?”

The demon explained, embarrassed, “It-it was the first Earthly book I read. It was called ‘Eric.’”

Aziraphale’s face distorted further, but he was still smiling. “Just ‘Eric?’”

“Yes.”

“Written by whom?”

“I don’t recall.” Eric fretted. “I… I only read a few paragraphs, then I had to put it away before Hastur found me.” He quickly moved on from the memory. “But, ah, that name stuck with me.”

Aziraphale hummed, vowing to search his memory and shelving later for books titled ‘Eric.’ He gestured politely to the wrapped artifact, “I must ask. Why did you come looking for  _ this _ book in particular?”

Eric’s answer was straightforward enough. “I wanted to read more of Lewis Carrol.”

“You already read ‘Alice?’”

“Yes.”

“And ‘Through The Looking Glass?’”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned up on one half of his face. This really was a demon who could read, and appeared to enjoy it. How fascinating. “What other authors have you read?”

“James Matthew Barrie, and ah, Alen Alexander Milne...” Eric listed.

“You like children’s literature, don't you?” Aziraphale was broadly grinning now, and coincidentally, the sun began to peek through the storm clouds.

Eric’s smile warmed with the sunlight. “I suppose so. And poetry. And jokes. I actually made up a joke recently, would you like to hear it?” He shifted his feet in subtle eagerness.

Aziraphale was thoroughly charmed, shaking his head with disbelief and nodding with joy. “Sure.”

“Alright.” Eric prepared himself with another shuffle of his feet. He took a breath and presented the joke in the form of a question. “What has four legs and one arm?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, his closed smile appearing mischievous as he searched through his memory of jokes and library of wit. He tilted his head, giving up and enticing, “Tell me.”

“A happy Hellhound.”

There was a pause, until, “…. _ Oh _ .” Aziraphale closed his eyes and exhaled a humored grin, turning away and feeling his face flush with warmth. A chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. “That’s terrible.” Despite his words, he clearly enjoyed the joke and chuckled further, though they were greatly repressed sounds. He should not have found the joke funny at all. But it was.

Eric nervously exhaled a snicker, slightly afraid at seeing an angel laugh. But his shy smile shifted from anxious to devilishly proud. “I suppose it depends on whose arm it’s got.” he laughed with a shrug.

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale grinned, though he was reminded that their opinion of terrible-ness was drastically different depending on whose arm the theoretical Hellhound possessed in its jaws. His smile faded, as did Eric’s.

Moving on, Aziraphale turned to leave. “Well, I must be going now. It was nice talking to you. I shan’t keep Crowley waiting any longer.” As expected, the mention of the redhead’s name did the job in effectively ending the conversation.

“Oh, yes right.” Eric took a step away and gave a brief wave. “Bye then.”

Aziraphale nodded to reciprocate the goodbye, and then bravely turned his back to walk away. He was well aware of the possibility of his departure being interrupted-- and it  _ was  _ interrupted, but only verbally.

“May I come by again, tomorrow?” Eric called. “For another book?”

Aziraphale turned and extensively pondered that request. After much contemplation had crossed his expression, he answered, “If you promise not to cause any trouble in there-- and  _ keep  _ your promise-- then,  _ yes, _ you may.”

Eric lit up and bounced on his heels. “I won’t cause any trouble!” he rushed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”

Aziraphale nodded again, then continued on his way. He was stopped once more as Eric hesitantly called something strange.

“I’m glad I didn’t hit you!”

The angel turned once more, perplexed and seeking clarification. But Eric gave none, only hurriedly crossing the street with his two tall tufts of sopping hair bobbing as he jogged away.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale debated telling Crowley about his extended invitation to Eric, but eventually, he did try to casually slip it into their next conversation. Needless to say, Crowley was not happy about it. He camped overnight at the bookshop like a sentry, slumped against the cushions of a sofa chair with a glass of wine in his claws to numb his anxiety. The chair was positioned just at the edge of the clearing in the center for the shop, giving the redhead a clear line of sight to the double-doored entrance, which he blankly stared at for hours.

Aziraphale kept him company through the night, searching around for books titled just ‘Eric,’ and doing his best to keep the purpose of his investigation concealed from his friend. Luckily, Crowley paid his bustling no mind, and continued staring at the doors in statuesque waiting.

The angel did not come across any such mystery book, and resorted to firing up his old computer to search for it on the line. He refrained from asking Crowley for help navigating the Explorer, and pecked away at the keyboard between swishing the mouse controller around like a sluggish old man.

Again, he found nothing. Sighing to himself and removing his spectacles, he rubbed his eyes and noticed it was time to open the shop for the morning. Perhaps Eric had lied about the source of his name. The angel hoped that wasn't the case, but… it was possible.

Dismayed, he turned in his creaky wooden chair to glance at Crowley’s still form in the sofa chair. “Are you asleep, dear?”

The demon moved for the first time in hours, but only enough to mutter, “No. Just thinking.”

“Right.” Aziraphale sighed. He hadn’t seen Crowley so miserable since he’d delivered the Antichrist. It saddened him, and he wished the man wouldn’t be so worried.

The angel joined him in gazing over at the shop’s entrance. It was time to unlock the doors, open the shades, and flip the sign. They both knew it, but it was left unspoken. “I’ll fetch some tea.” Aziraphale proposed, standing and then gently taking the glass of wine from his friend’s hand. It would be best if the demon wasn’t intoxicated when their guest showed up. Aziraphale was already dreading it. Where was it written that two demons couldn't get along?

On his way to make tea and wash the wine glass, he opened the shop. Crowley remained in the chair.

* * *

Business was slow. Slower than the first day. There wasn't more than about four or five humans browsing the shop at one time. All were easily dissuaded from purchasing anything precious, and Aziraphale found himself spending most of the day glancing over at the red-haired statue in his sofa chair, wishing he could do something to snap the man out of his somber mood.

When Eric did arrive, the only change in Crowley’s demeanor was a slight pinch of the muscles above his lip. The snarl he’d been saving was loaded and ready to fire. From deeply behind his shades, Crowley sourly watched the other demon slink over to Aziraphale across the room.

“Hullo, Eric.” Aziraphale greeted pleasantly. “What are you looking for today?”

Eric shifted his shoulders in a lopsided shrug, tilting his head and smiling briefly before catching Crowley’s distant scalding look. “I, ah, wondered if you had any recommendations.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale tried to ignore the feeling of discomfort perfuming his shop, which, unfortunately, dear Crowley was cultivating intensely. Infectious unease poured from his hidden glare like he was a factory for it. It was difficult to combat, but Aziraphale did his best, glowing with all the friendly radiance he had in him to neutralize the room. “Are you familiar at all with Margery Williams?”

“No.” Eric smiled warily, torn between succumbing to the two conflicting atmospheres.

“I suggest you try out her most popular work. ‘The Velveteen Rabbit,’” the angel enticed merrily, gesturing to the South Wing. After helping Eric find the location, Aziraphale busied himself elsewhere. 

Specifically, somewhere near Crowley.

* * *

“Would you stop that?” the blonde whispered, flipping through an encyclopedia for a fabricated reason as he hovered near the man brewing up a storm of hatred in his sofa chair.

Crowley continued to glare across the room at where Eric browsed the Margery Williams collection. “Stop what? I haven’t _done_ anything.” he muttered bitterly. The similarity of his current crime and Eric’s ongoing crime of ‘not doing anything, _yet_ ’ went completely over the angel’s head.

“Staring him down like a hawk.” Aziraphale answered, lifting his eyes from the pages of the encyclopedia to gently narrow a blue-eyed glare at his friend.

After a moment, and feeling Aziraphale’s own scolding gaze linger on him, Crowley forced himself to look at something other than Eric. He sighed, his chest rising and falling more than it had in hours’ time. “I don't like this,” he muttered, having trouble focusing on something else to glare at. “I _really_ don't like this. Why’d you allow him back again?”

“He’s not doing any harm.”

Crowley wasn’t so sure. He felt that harm _was_ happening, somehow, in some way. It was just hard to see it. But he _felt_ it. And it seemed that he was the _only_ one who felt it. So he realized, glancing up at the angel beside him, “...What if... _this_ is all they want?”

“What?” Aziraphale looked over his spectacles to catch his gaze.

If Crowley hadn’t been wearing glasses of his own, his vertical irises would have showcased an abysmal uncertainty. “To _get_ to _me_.”

“To bother _you?_ By visiting _me?”_ Aziraphale scoffed, shaking his head. He refused to believe any demon was as crafty as that.

“Seems a very Hellish thing to do, to be honest.” Crowley mused aloud, hesitantly glancing to Eric again, but only briefly so as not to anger Aziraphale. “The small, seemingly harmless and insignificant things. The things that drive a man _mad,_ because of all the unknowns....”

“You’re overthinking this.” Aziraphale hummed. It was an attempt to console him, though it came across as rather heartless.

“You’re glossing over this.” Crowley argued quietly, but his volume lifted slightly as he pulled his eyes back upon the angel, hissing tightly, “Would you just _listen_ to me, for _once?”_

Aziraphale closed the encyclopedia and tucked it under one arm. “Crowley, if you’re not comfortable in here, you are more than welcome to get some fresh air.”

There it was. The angels’ classic, patented proclivity to fall into a state of denial and declare everything _fine._ To sweep any problems under the rug rather than answering or addressing any of them. It made Crowley’s scales crawl, but he refrained from getting upset. It was difficult, for the demon was hurt again, but he shook his head stubbornly. “I’m not leaving you alone with him,” he muttered.

“I can take care of myself just fine.” Aziraphale dipped his head, also growing cross, as it was one of his personal pet peeves to be thought of as a _weak_ angel, and unable to do his duty and prevail against forces of darkness. Trying to remain patient, he eased, “I do appreciate your concern, but if it’s going to drive you mad, I’d rather you leave.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him.” Crowley repeated, staring across the room at Eric again.

Aziraphale shifted the book to his other arm, sighing curtly. “Crowley, I have faced far worse creatures than _that._ And I think you’re being quite a bully for picking on him so.”

“You don't know him like I do.”

Aziraphale noticed the solemn tone in Crowley’s voice. The demon’s lip had lifted enough to reveal a canine. 

“Then, _enlighten_ me.” the angel requested with a select choice of terse words.

Crowley turned to show an expression of mild disgust at his friend, but he obliged, “He’s _bad,_ Aziraphale. Don’t let his fluffy hair and batting eyelashes fool you. He’s the _errand boy_. He’s the minion that goes about doing all the _dirty_ work that higher demons would be bored to Death to do. Petty, small things, like...” he gestured with a careless hand. “The disappearance of letters and packages. Stealing credit cards, emptying banks, starting prison breaks, spreading computer viruses, that sort of thing.”

 _"You’ve_ done some of those things.” Aziraphale reminded him with little judgement. They weren’t all that horrible of things, in his opinion. He knew he shouldn’t have that casual of an view on the matter, but he did.

“Yeah, but it’s _different.”_ Crowley’s head bobbed to nail down his point. _“We’re_ different, him and I,” he emphasized firmly.

“I don’t see how.” Aziraphale hummed, prompting Crowley to scoff and massage away a headache.

Crowley lifted his head again as a light bulb went off in it. “He’s like a compsognathus!”

“A what?” Aziraphale winced.

“The little dinosaurs who gang up on the bigger ones.” Crowley shaped his hands to show their chicken-like size. “No one expects they’re going to do all that much damage, and next thing you know, you’re overwhelmed by a whole swarm of ‘em.”

“Oh, please. Those never existed, remember?” Aziraphale began putting the encyclopedia away on the shelf beside Crowley’s chair. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“Have you ever seen ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail?” Crowley twisted in his chair to continue the conversation, determined to get his point across for Aziraphale's sake.

“No, I haven’t.” The angel caressed the encyclopedia’s spine as he encouraged it to fit between others of its kind.

“You should watch it.” Crowley nodded. “So you learn.”

“Learn what?”

“What happens when you trivialize a cute, fluffy rabbit from _Hell.”_

The blonde furrowed his brow, intrigued. His curious train of thought was interrupted as Crowley reached over and took his hand, giving the most soft and earnest warning he’d ever given. “Do not underestimate him, Aziraphale.”

The angel glanced down at their joined hands, stunned by the amount of unconcealed affection in the rare touch.

“He’s desired to harm you before.”

The angel gave him a deeper look of confusion, shaking his head. “I-- _told you,_ I’ve _never_ seen him before.”

A new voice joined their discussion from across the room. “Yes, you have.”

Aziraphale and Crowley both glanced over at Eric, who also looked puzzled, and who couldn’t help but speak up about what he’d overheard. As the dark-haired demon closed the book he’d been studying, the angel and red-haired demon quickly parted hands. Eric’s ear-like tufts of hair must have been bloody antennae for him to have heard their quiet murmurings from all the way over there. A talented spy indeed.

Crowley was frozen, but Aziraphale began blubbering an elaboration, “Uh, n-not besides the past couple of d--”

“You saw me in Heaven.” Eric tilted his head, almost appearing hurt that Aziraphale hadn't recollected the occasion. “During your trial.” Crickets may as well have chirped in the bookshop. “...I delivered the Hellfire?”

There was a great span of silence that passed through the bookshop, and Aziraphale tore his gaze away to notice that the store was empty of all human customers again. A lucky coincidence, perhaps. The angel uneasily exhaled a laugh. “U-um, right.” He had no idea how to fix this and play along with the memories he was supposed to have but didn’t. He couldn’t look to Crowley for help or their secret would be even more obvious.

Crowley was still frozen in the chair, eyes unblinking behind his glasses. It was as if he believed he was perched on a paper-thin layer of ice which was about to give way.

Eric hesitantly pointed at him, his raccoon eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Wait, how come… _you_ knew that…” He then glanced to Aziraphale, and adjusted his finger to point accordingly. “But _you_ didn’t?”

Crowley finally exhaled in dread, “Oh no.”

The metaphorical ice had shattered.


	4. Chapter 4

A lingering silence trapped the three of them once again. Eric hesitated, but soon broke the air by chuckling warily. “That was _you_ up there, wasn't it?” he realized, mouth agape with surprise as he pointed eagerly at Crowley.

Eric continued glancing between the pair, exchanging their images in his mind. “You two switched vessels somehow. That’s how _you_ survived the fire. And _you,_ with the bath…”

Aziraphale felt a chill run down his spine as Eric’s finger aimed at him again. It may as well have been a pistol with a round in the chamber.

Eric’s laugh grew, and grew, until his painted eyes squeezed shut from the powerful breaths heaving from his lungs. His hands came to rest over his stomach as he folded with delight, shoulders quaking. His drastic transformation from a potential friend to a total comic book villain was enough to make the angel swallow anxiously.

The young demon clapped his gloved hands and spun on his heel, causing his blue scarf to swish about his shoulders. “That’s brilliant! How did you manage that?” It appeared as if he’d happily stumbled across the greatest joke in the universe-- one that everyone in both Heaven and Hell had fallen for-- and he simply couldn’t contain the sadistic joy that it brought him.

Aziraphale began to panic. His face was paler than usual, his smile frightened. “I- _No,_ I don't know what you’re talking about! How could we--” he unconvincingly babbled in a flustered rush.

Crowley began to seethe with anger. His claws sank into the armrests of the sofa chair.

Eric gave them another charismatic point like they were a couple of his best buddies. “I _knew_ there was something _scary_ about you.” He turned his grin to Crowley, entirely unafraid of the building rage in the redhead’s glare. “That’s because it was _you,_ not you.” Eric laughed again, liking the joke so much that it would be impossible to expect him _not_ to tell it to the whole wide underworld.

Crowley snarled like a revving engine. The force at which he stood up out of the chair was enough to send it scooting backwards as if it were sentient enough to fear his proximity.

Eric hardly noticed, let alone flinched. “Oh, that’s clever. I’m rather impressed.” The lesser demon nodded, sobering slightly, yet still grinning-- not because he was unaware of the amount of danger he was in, but because he simply did not care.

“You’re going to be _dead_ in a minute.” Crowley corrected, marching forward and opening his materialized wings to display a predatory challenge with fanned feathers.

“I will have _no fighting_ in my bookshop!” Aziraphale erupted with surprising volume, placing himself firmly between the two of them with a commanding spread of his hands. The shop had burned down one too many times already, and he was not going to allow it to happen again.

Crowley halted and lowered his wings, but he continued to glare across the room at Eric. “We’ll take it outside, then.”

“Now, hold on a minute, Mister Crowley.” Eric lifted a finger and politely interjected with some information. “I promised that I would cause no trouble in here. And I will keep that promise.” He nodded to Aziraphale as if the angel should be very proud of him indeed. Aziraphale tried not to cringe. 

“But if I go _outside_ , I’m obligated to cause a _heap_ of it.” Eric nodded with a bounce of his heels and lift of his brows. He’d never really possessed any ammunition to manipulate people with before, but he’d watched plenty of others do such things, and he was planning on using his newfound bargaining chip well to his advantage.

Crowley was livid. “You are in _no_ position to make _threats_ ,” he seethed, his voice venturing treacherously deep.

“I am, actually.” Eric lifted his chin and blinked once, delivering yet another calm threat to prove it. “You’d both be in terrible danger if anyone else found out about your clever trick.” He knew he didn’t _have_ to tell them that, but he was bold enough to do so anyway. He had absolutely nothing to lose, while they had everything to lose. He knew how this game worked. He was not _stupid,_ despite what everyone had told him all his life.

“If you kill me, you’ll be sending me straight down into the waiting line for a new corporation, and do you know who’s at the end of that line?” He placed his hands behind his back and bent forward like an expectant professor.

Crowley’s lip curled. “I do.”

“Right, so you see, I _will_ get through that queue, eventually. And I _will_ tell on you.” Eric smiled, appearing very proud of himself. He was rather good at this business, wasn't he? “Therefore, you _can’t_ kill me,” he concluded merrily. Damn, that felt good. To talk back. To put his foot down.

Crowley was not defeated yet. He shrugged and made a nonchalant counter-threat. “Guess we have to utterly _destroy_ you instead, then, don’t we?”

Eric’s confident smile wavered.

“Angel, why don’t you go fetch some of that Holy Water of yours?” Crowley grinned triumphantly and declared a checkmate, his embering eyes still fixated on Eric behind his soulless shades.

Breathing carefully through his mouth and doing his best to appear neutral, Aziraphale stared at Eric, then glanced to the floor, then risked a brief look sideways at Crowley. But the angel did not move. He knew that Crowley was bluffing. The fact was, he didn't _have_ any Holy Water, and they both were well aware of that. This was more of a check than a checkmate. They’d be threatening the lad with tap water, and that wouldn’t be very effective for long. 

Aziraphale searched for a different strategy in their game of chess.

Eric lifted his head and grew brave again as a smirk spread across his face. “Go ahead. You’d only be destroying _one_ of me, and that’d do you more harm than good.” He folded his arms across his chest and radiated smugness.

Crowley snarled. “Oh, so you _aren’t_ out of duplicates after all?” The lesser demon was either lying _now_ or had been lying _before,_ and it would be suspiciously convenient for him if he’d produced a few more copies of himself between now and then. Eric simply smiled with no answer, enjoying toying with the redhead’s doubts.

Aziraphale believed their opponent was bluffing to save his skin, but he wasn’t so sure of his own judgement anymore. Either way, they didn't have any Holy Water, so that plan was out of the question regardless.

“I think we can come to some sort of agreement without having to resort to _that.”_ The bookkeeper proposed calmly, and not without a hint of passive aggression. He directed a solemn nod to Eric, and Eric’s smugness faded, perhaps replaced by a glimmer of relief.

Aziraphale kept his cool blue eyes on him. “Don’t you think so, Eric?” he offered, giving him an opportunity to seek peace, for the demon’s own sake.

Eric contemplated the offer, then gave a calculating nod. “Yeah, I think we could.”

“Good.” Aziraphale equipped a softer smile in reward, then stepped away from Crowley to approach the lesser demon. Eric looked apprehensive and struggled to meet the angel’s deep parental gaze.

“What are your demands?” the bookkeeper asked sweetly, as if he were inquiring about a child’s Christmas wish list. “What will keep you quiet about this nonsense?”

Eric began to think about that, but Crowley interrupted with a scowl and a wild flail of his arms, _“Nothing_ will keep him quiet. He’ll blackmail us for as long as it entertains him _,_ but eventually he _will_ tell, and then we are _fucked!”_

“Crowley.” Aziraphale turned to give him a very subtle but very stern look. “Let us talk.” His voice was as warm as liquid honey, medicated to remedy the greatest of fears. “There’s no harm in discussing things.”

The redhead growled and began pacing the circular space in the center of the shop, completely unaware that he was trudging over a hidden and inactive Heaven’s Circle beneath the rug. Aziraphale continued his diplomatic negotiations with their guest, asking nicely, “What do you want, Eric?”

Eric fiddled with the thick fabric of his scarf, thinking deeply. “...In exchange for keeping quiet about this whole thing?” he clarified.

Aziraphale confirmed.

“...I can have _whatever_ I want?” Eric emphasized.

After a pause, and a slight look of irritation, Aziraphale yielded, “Within reason. I’m not God.” He chuckled weakly. “But, I _will_ do... whatever I _can._ For you,” he awkwardly promised, mixing half-hearted sentiment with indifference. He did not enjoy being _forced_ to be kind, but desperate times called for extra-kind measures.

“Hmm.” Eric folded one arm across his midsection and rested an elbow on its wrist, pressing a finger to his pursed lips. His long lashes fluttered slightly as he glanced up and down the bookkeeper as if he would find the answer that he was searching for in the angel’s outdated sense of fashion. The demon took his time deciding, drawling, “I waaaant…”

Finally, he beamed and removed his finger from his lips, using it to point flamboyantly with each item on his wish list. “A lifetime supply of chocolates. And new clothes. And a trip to Disneyland.”

 _“Disneyland?”_ Aziraphale’s endearing facade fell away as he donned an overtly exasperated expression.

Eric grinned devilishly, “They say it’s the happiest place on Earth.”

The angel rolled his head and patted the air. “Alright, seriously now, Eric.”

“I _am_ being serious!” The demon gasped in offense. He then pointed out, like an upset child, “And I’m not finished yet.”

Aziraphale buttoned up his dismay and let the creature get on with his silly demands, though the angel looked a little miserable about it.

The demon gestured around them. “I want to read whatever books I like in your shop, and… I want to learn how to drive a car.” 

Ideas began popping out of his mind like microwaved corn. His enthusiastic mannerisms and expression grew with each item. “I want to get a job, and I want to own a pet, and I want to... I want to live on Earth!” He burst. Crowley abruptly stopped pacing and Aziraphale raised his eyebrows with a series of blinks.

“You _wot?!”_ The redhead cried from behind the angel.

“I want to start a new life.” Eric declared firmly. He knew it sounded stupid. He knew if was basically forbidden. He knew Lord Beelzebub would never allow it, and he knew it was borderline traitorous of him to abandon his post, but he wanted it, and now he might have discovered some way of getting it. He realized that the knowledge of Crowley and Aziraphale’s secret magic trick was a key. A key which could unlock his wildest dreams.

“I don’t want to go back down to Hell again. I want to be able to blend in with the humans, like you two.” He nodded and threw one last gesture at them, trying to remain demanding and not so much asking for help-- which was essentially what he was doing, no matter how he tried to disguise it.

The bookkeeper cocked his head, intrigued by the desire, while Crowley clearly despised it. The redhead cast out a passionate, _“Absolutely not!”_ but Aziraphale asked softly, “You really want to live up here?” According to his saintly interpretation, that meant that the demon wanted _to be a better person,_ and that softened the angel. Crowley only saw the other demon’s desire as a detrimental, territorial _dilemma._

“I do.” Eric muttered strongly, eyeing the bookkeeper with a hint of bitter embarrassment. “It… it’s quite nice up here, and I’m not treated very well down there.” He looked at his hands for a moment.

Crowley callously retorted, _“No one_ is, that’s why it’s called _Hell.”_

Eric gulped and shook his head, repeating, “I don’t wanna go back there.” Glancing to Aziraphale, he corrected, “If I don’t... _have_ to.” mirroring the angel’s earlier polite threat. In his opinion, they had no choice but to help him. If they didn’t, then he’d gladly return to the depths and mercilessly spill their secret.

Aziraphale was torn. He took a breath and placed his hands together, explaining, “I’m going to be frank with you, Eric. It’s not _easy_ to hide here.” He spread his hands before pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve been doing it for thousands of years, and we still get funny looks, especially Crowley.” At that, the redhead lifted his arms and quirked an offended expression.

“It’s difficult to disguise miracles on Earth.” Aziraphale carefully continued. “It’s an art form that requires... _tact_ and _stealth.”_

“I have tact,” Eric claimed arrogantly, shifting his stance and shrugging. “And stealth. Whatever I need to do better, you’ll teach me,” Eric assigned. “I’m not going to change my mind. Those are my terms to the deal. If you agree to it and help me, then I’ll never tell anyone your secret. But if you don’t agree, or cross me, or kill me, then I’ll sing it to both Hell _and_ Heaven.”

Aziraphale suppressed a sigh. “You won’t tell a _single, living, soul?”_ He elaborated carefully, willing it to be precisely clear, with no room for cheating or tricks.

Eric heard his concern, and offered enthusiastically, “Not a single living soul. Not a demon, angel, _or_ human. Not even a butterfly. Nothing but the trees and the rocks.” He then pondered, “Even then, you can never be certain these days. So, no thing at all.” 

He finalized, “I swear.”

Aziraphale looked Eric straight in the eye with all the stoicism an angel could have. It made Eric swallow nervously, but he waited. Crowley waited in anticipation as well, having grown still and silent behind his friend.

Finally, Aziraphale appeared to nod thoughtfully. “We’ll swear it on the Bible,” he resolved, flashing a bright smile as a holy light bulb came on in his head.

He then stepped towards a glass case that protected an ancient manuscript of the Pentateuch, which was composed of a few remaining threads of aged canvas and leather, held together by Eastern dust, and dating far beyond the 4th century. A distant ancestor of the common King James Bible, locked up tightly in Aziraphale’s shop instead of any ridiculous museum.

Eric appeared as if he’d been pricked by a needle. _“What?”_ He flashed a bewildered look to Crowley, but Crowley remained still, his expression vacant to hide his own curiosity. 

But Aziraphale passed the glass case, and instead fished out a black book from the shelf behind it. A common King James Bible, just as plain and simple as the ones that could be found tucked away in modern hotel drawers or church pews. There was no way in seven Hells that he was allowing anyone, much less a demon, to taint his prized _original_ Bible with their touch.

As Aziraphale returned, Eric stared at the little black book like it was a ticking bomb.

“Humans thought of it.” the angel informed him proudly. “It ties the spirit of truth to verbal transactions. Lately, they often do it to swear in their leaders. Clever, isn’t it?”

Eric was not so enthused, and he looked very trepidatious and uncomfortable. “Is this a trick? Am I going to melt if I touch it?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer at first, only smiling at the thought of such a thing. After a moment of letting the demon fret just a little longer, he shook his head and reassured him, “You will not melt. No harm will come to you.” He elaborated quickly, “So long as you _mean_ what you _say.”_

“We shall all swear on it, and our deal will be secured.” He opened the little book to a random spot, smiling at the scripture written upon the delicate page. Holding it up with one hand as if it were a dessert tray, he placed his other palm upon the open leaflets. “This will bind the three of us to our promise. It ensures the exchange is fair, and that no one can break their vows.”

Eric continued to grimace at the object. “Are you making all of this up?”

“I’m an angel.” Aziraphale reminded him with some offense. “Do you really think I can tell a lie? Especially of this nature?”

Eric squinted at him. “All angels are liars. They shouldn’t be trusted, not with anything.” He hesitantly glanced over to the other demon in the room, asking weakly for backup, “...Right Crowley?”

Crowley gave him no backup whatsoever. He wasn't going to allow the little twerp to wedge a single thing between him and Aziraphale, not even the redhead’s sacrilegious beliefs.

“Eric, I don’t expect you to trust me.” Aziraphale interrupted gently. “That’s why I propose we do _this,_ so that you have nothing to fear as far as trickery goes.” He offered the book forward, keeping one palm upon the open pages. “Place your hand on it, next to mine. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Eric was not convinced. He looked at the scriptures with disgust, then jerked his head towards his traitorous brother. “Crowley first.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Very well. Good idea.” He looked over his shoulder and called his friend over. “Crowley?”

Crowley hesitated, looking warily at Aziraphale from behind the defenses of his shades. He stepped over slowly, giving the angel time to come up with something else, if this _was_ a malicious trick meant for Eric.

“It’s alright. Go ahead.” Aziraphale tenderly encouraged him. “Your right hand, please.”

So it _wasn’t_ a malicious trick, then. Crowley pouted in disappointment, cautiously placing his right hand upon the pages beside the angel’s. The redhead grimaced mildly as he touched the Holy book, but only in repulsion.

“There, see? Now you.” Aziraphale requested.

Eric timidly placed his right palm on the other side of Aziraphale’s, watching them and the book closely.

“Now we speak our vows with open intent,” the angel instructed, informing them that, “The book will tell if you’re dishonest, and I can’t promise what will happen then. So speak earnestly. Go ahead, Eric.”

Eric’s fingers twitched with anxiety upon the delicate scriptures. “Okay.” He gulped again, and centered his train of thought. “I swear. By…. by the Bible… that I will not tell Aziraphale and Mister Crowley’s secret to any living soul-- human, demon, angel, or otherwise.”

“Not even the rocks or the trees?” the angel reminded.

“I will tell Aziraphale and Mister Crowley’s secret to no thing at all.” Eric clarified.

“And how will you treat the books?” the angel inquired, guiding him through the process in proper priestly fashion.

“I... shall be kind to Aziraphale’s books.”

“All books.” the angel corrected.

Eric echoed him with a nod. “All books.”

Aziraphale maintained the momentum of the vow, adding into the equation, “And so long as you live upon this Earth, you will not cause catastrophic terror or harm upon it?”

“And I will not cause catastrophic terror or harm upon this Earth….?” Eric followed through with agreeing to the suggestion, though he was surprised by the direction he’d been steered towards.

Aziraphale nodded in acceptance, leading him through no more gentle hoops. He directed a brief sideways glance at Crowley, opening the conversation up in case he wanted to contribute anything to their contract, but the redhead remained silent. Crowley thoroughly did not believe in this rubbish, and he wasn't speaking a single word while his hand was on that damned Bible. This was Aziraphale’s silly little stunt, and he was complying only to support him-- in the most minimal way possible, as far as any ‘vowing to God’ was concerned.

The angel took his turn to proclaim upon the book. _“I_ swear, by the Holy Bible and God Almighty, that so long as Eric keeps his vow, earnestly and eternally, we will not bring any harm to him. He may read all of my books. He will be supplied with a lifetime of chocolates, he will own a pet, and he will get a job and new clothes.” 

Eric watched him, smiling cautiously as the angel recalled every single detail of his wish list. 

“He will learn to drive a car. He will take a trip to Disneyland, and he will live among humans as we do.” Aziraphale finished.

Eric cut in, ensuring that the angel did not forget, “You will _teach_ me how to live on Earth, _properly,_ like a real human. Both of you.”

“We will teach you, yes.”

Eric continued interjecting certain hoops and requirements of the deal just as Aziraphale had done to him. “And you won’t send me or any of my duplicates back down to Hell, by death, or… by any other means.”

“We will not send you back to Hell.” Aziraphale agreed patiently.

Eric paused for a moment, asking with a new layer of sincerity, “And you will _not_ destroy me-- or my duplicates-- with Holy Water?”

Aziraphale did not answer immediately. 

Crowley turned his head to give the bookkeeper a look, begging him not to vow to that. In his opinion, the threat of destruction via Holy Water was their greatest, only, and _last_ defense against the bunny bugger. It was the only reliable way to ensure Eric would never reveal their secret. No preposterous Holy promises would protect them, not forever, and if this was some kind of plot to buy them time, it would be entirely pointless if they were somehow unable to resort to that surefire plan in the future.

Aziraphale ignored Crowley as the serpent began to pleadingly shake his head.

The angel had made his decision. “And we will not destroy you, or any of your duplicates, with Holy Water.” He added considerately, “Or any _other_ Holy thing.”

Crowley’s eyelids dropped with heavy disappointment. He turned his head away as he tightly balled his free hand at his side. He could only pray that Aziraphale hadn’t meant that. Or that this was all a bunch of rubbish, and they were not bound by his stupid vow. Aziraphale’s thumb moved ever so slightly to rest against the knuckle of Crowley’s pinky finger, consoling him with the tiniest of touches.

Eric did not notice. He was grinning with relief and excitement. “Good. Yes,” he nodded eagerly, accepting the arrangement they’d crafted.

Aziraphale nodded too, though his was far more solemn. “May this oath be sanctioned by God,” he murmured down at their three hands and the scriptures they rested upon. “Amen.”

Eric then tensed, expecting the book to start shining, or explode, or for something else terrifyingly remarkable to happen. But nothing happened at all.

After allowing the boy a moment of worry, Aziraphale broke the tension in the room by lowering the book from beneath the demons’ hands and closing it with a loud clap that spooked Eric. The angel tucked the Bible under one arm, giving them both a glowing smile, and then returned to place it back on the shelf. “There. That’s all done, then.”

“....Is that it?” Eric glanced around as if he was expecting to be ambushed by a heavenly choir.

“Yes. That’s it. Nothing flashy.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Now we are each bound to obey our vows.”

Eric eyed Crowley, but it appeared the redhead was too depressed to be interested in wringing his neck any more. “And there’s no way… that they can be broken, right?” This was all far too good to be true.

“That’s right. We are all safely confined by the oath.” Aziraphale returned to them, appearing quite relaxed and pleased with the result of the encounter.

Eric anxiously smiled again, exhaling what grew into uncontrolled laughter that might have sounded eerie to anyone who did not understand how genuinely delighted he was. _“Brilliant!”_

“Now, what shall you like to do first?” Aziraphale asked kindly.


	5. Chapter 5

Chocolates were first on the list.

So, naturally, they took a tour of the most divine confectionery in Britain. It was a wonderful, colorful, thriving place, and very much designed for children to enjoy themselves in. It was a chocolate factory that Willy Wonka himself would be envious of, and was surely the original inspiration for Roald Dahl’s most beloved tale. But this place was far superior, as it was free from all of the casualties and hazards of the fictional wonderland. Unfortunately, that also meant there were no chocolate rivers or snozzberries.

There _were,_ however _,_ grand windows along nearly every wall, giving a spectacular view of the machinery, conveyor belts, and of course, the chocolates themselves in the making. Curtains of sleek dark liquid were poured onto trays --settling nicely into molds-- and drizzled across other candies. Truffles were passed through a chiller before being adorned with sweet details artistically applied via precise laser mapping. Similarly, roses and other patterns were chiseled into the treats before they were sent off into pretty packages and deposited straight into the store within the building.

Eric was pressed up against the window just as eagerly as the other children, though he was twice their height. He completely fit in with the lot (except for his height,) making a racket of ‘ooh’s and ‘aw’s along with them between giving excited points at the most fascinating of machinery and directing relentless questions at the tour guide.

With their children effectively distracted, a gathering of various parents hung back, using their moment of reprieve to busy themselves with their infants strapped in strollers, or distract themselves with their cell phones, or-- in a certain pair’s case-- quietly bicker to each other.

“ _Soooo,”_ Crowley drawled, rotating himself just enough to mutter quietly towards the blonde man beside him, “Would you care to explain that whole _Bible_ bit?”

The two of them remained facing forward for the most part, keeping an eye on their newly adopted responsibility. Crowley’s expression was as tired as ever, his glasses still firmly concealing most of his emotion. Aziraphale stared at the tallest individual in the exuberant mass of children with the hawk-eyed observation of a mother. A mother who was painfully disappointed, yet who couldn’t help but retain some sense of compassion within her eyes.

“Aziraphale?”

The bookkeeper did not avert his gaze from Eric. When the lad glanced back to ensure the pair was still there, the blonde donned a quick smile-- dropping it just as quickly when Eric became distracted by the marvels of the factory once again.

Crowley pulled his own attention over to his partner, asking more intensely, “Was it legitimate?” But the demon seemed wary of the answer, hesitantly elaborating with a gesture of his hand, “The… binding of promises and such?”

Aziraphale still did not respond, nor change a single thing about his statue-esque pose.

Crowley felt something deep within his chest begin to sink-- either his heart, his hopes, or both. “...Angel?”

After an eternity, Aziraphale gave him a brief side glance, showing that he was perhaps just a little nervous to answer him.

That was not a good sign.

Crowley straightened his spine and cocked his head with a warning, “So _help me,_ if you--” But he stopped himself as Aziraphale turned to look at him deeply, and the demon waited for his answer.

But all Aziraphale said was, “Do you trust me?”

“Oh come on, now!” Crowley’s shoulders sagged drastically. “You can’t answer a question with a _question!_ You know I _hate_ that!” he hissed.

“Do you trust me?” the angel repeated, as if he needed to know before he could continue the topic of discussion. Or, before he could make a decision. He waited patiently as Crowley gave him a twinged expression, but before long, Crowley nodded like a hammer. “ _Yes._ Damn it all, _yes,_ I trust you, you bloomin’ bastard.”

Aziraphale exhaled the breath he’d been holding in and nodded in gratitude, appearing very reassured. He turned his gaze back onto Eric, who was verbally assaulting the poor tour guide with the most elaborate litany of questions, and not allowing the poor woman get a word in edgewise to even begin to answer him.

Crowley was owed an answer himself. _“Well?”_ he prompted the bookkeeper.

Aziraphale gave it to him with a careful nod of certainty. “Yes. The Bible thing was real.”

 _“What!?”_ Crowley craned his head forward and felt his knees weaken. After glancing around at the other parents, who were too busy with their pathetic selves to hear their conversation, he hissed, _“Aziraphale, wh--?”_

“We are bound by our oath,” the angel murmured.

“ _‘We?’’_ Crowley’s lips stretched with astonishment. _“_ No, not _me,”_ he vigorously shook his head in disbelief.

“You as well,” the angel nodded.

“But I didn’t even--!” Crowley whined, throwing his hands up, shifting his feet, and glancing around the room again as if looking for a way to escape-- or for a camera crew. Surely this was all a grand prank.

“Your hand was on it.” Aziraphale tipped his head toward the demon, acting quite callous about this whole thing.

“I didn’t vow anything!” Crowley protested, stepping directly in front of the bookkeeper to force him to acknowledge his utter panic.

“It doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale gently informed him, glancing to his dark glasses with a miniscule amount of sympathy.

“I didn't _agree_ to that.” Crowley placed a point upon his own partially exposed chest and bent at the knees again as if he was about to plead with the angel. He wasn’t necessarily talking about the vows themselves anymore. He was talking about the entire thing. It should have been a strategy they discussed and made _together,_ as a _team._ He felt thoroughly tricked-- by his own angel-- and that _hurt._

Now, Aziraphale looked guilty. He waited before whispering, “You didn’t _have_ to.”

As usual, Crowley transformed his hurt into anger. He became quite pissed-off, and tilted his head down so his fiery eyes were visible above the rim of his shades. “That’s. Not. Fair.” he snarled lowly.

Aziraphale winced, feeling truly sorry, yet trying his best to conceal it. He turned up his nose and regained some indifference to shield himself from his own feelings. “Sometimes supreme dealings aren’t fair, Crowley, but that’s the way it has to be.” 

“I didn’t _consent_ to any of that, Aziraphale.” Crowley growled, picking a _key_ word that was supposed to be of value. Aziraphale sighed shamefully to himself. Unfortunately, consent was taken into consideration far less frequently than one would expect in Heavenly dealings.

The redhead glanced away, sparing his friend from his glare for a moment. “That was a very demonic thing to do.” Despite his anguish, Crowley delivered the verbal jab gently.

“It’s _not,_ actually.” Aziraphale defended himself, ignoring the wound inflicted by his partner’s accusation. “You’d be surprised how often consent is deemed _unnecessary,_ for angels to do what is--” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘right.’ Something like that _wasn't_ right. Not in his opinion. “What is required,” he finished, then offered, “Vicarious baptism, for example.”

Crowley lifted a finger to interject, “No, the idea behind _baptisms for the dead_ is that if the dead were _able_ to agree to it, they _would,_ “ which he still had many issues with, but “In _this_ case, I _was_ able to agree, yet I _didn’t.”_

Aziraphale couldn’t argue against that. He glanced away, then downward. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but what is done is done.”

Crowley refused with a determined shake of his head. He would not be bound by some Holy oath that he _never_ agreed to. His denial consumed him. Changing topics, perhaps mostly to distract himself from his pangs of betrayal, he declared, “We have to destroy him. It’s the only way to ensure we’re safe.” That was the original plan, and certainly the only one that would work.

“We’re not going to do that.” Aziraphale muttered, adding, “We _can’t,_ now.”

Crowley continued to pierce him with a glare, rebelliously claiming, _“I_ can.”

Aziraphale was starting to grow upset, though his version of upset was far more mellow than Crowley’s. “I told you, you _can’t._ You are bound by--”

 _“No, I’m_ ** _not!”_** The demon protested adamantly. Some adults around them flinched at the sudden volume and then gave the pair funny looks-- especially the redhead. Crowley lowered his voice again and stepped closer to the angel to close off their conversation.

“I still have some Holy Water left,” he whispered while hovering beside the angel’s shoulder, only barely avoiding brushing against it. “I saved a bit. That you gave me.”

Aziraphale was not surprised by this ‘secret.’ He murmured, “I figured as much,” gazing at the man’s V-neck collar and bohemian scarf before lifting his eyes to his glasses again.

That struck Crowley. “What?”

“I figured you still had some.” Aziraphale glanced to the parents around them, who were ignoring them again.

“Then why did you promise that we wouldn’t _use_ it?!” Crowley groaned through clenched teeth before stepping away to walk in a tight circle of anxious anger. Returning back to the angel, he hissed, _“Why,_ Aziraphale?”

“Maybe because _I had to,_ did you not think of _that?”_ Aziraphale hissed back in a sudden burst of his own distress. He took a recovering breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head. “I had to get Eric to agree to the deal, Crowley. So that--”

The demon was quick to mercilessly point out, “Oh, _he_ had to agree to it, did he? But not me?”

“He was the other party. You and I were on a--” Aziraphale cut himself off and turned away, having backed himself into quite a painful corner of the conversation.

 _“A team?_ Is that what you were going to say? _A team?”_ Crowley was astonished. Some team.

Now it was the bookkeeper’s turn to search for a way to escape the factory, and this agonizing discussion. Crowley stepped over to place himself squarely in Aziraphale’s line of sight again, forcing the blonde to focus on him, and demanding, _“Are_ we a team, Aziraphale? Or am I just whatever’s most convenient for you?”

 _“Enough.”_ Aziraphale barked at him, looking him straight in the eye sharply. The blonde had been deeply stung by such a question.

Crowley returned to the topic of their salvation in an instant, knowing he had the angel’s full attention now. “I can do it, Aziraphale.” He professed in a passionate rush, “I can slip away if you cover for me. If you distract him with something. I’d just need a moment. We can catch him off guard. We can end this. Then we can be safe.”

Leading him through the logic of the theoretical situation only so he’d see its failure for himself, Aziraphale asked, “What about the duplicates he claimed to have?”

“We-- We’ll wait until we know for sure,” the redhead shrugged, pulling out desperate solutions. “And if he does have copies, we’ll get them all together at once, somewhere, and then we’ll--” The fact was that they had a big problem on their hands if they tried to destroy the bunny demon while he had any identicals hopping about.

“No, Crowley. No.” Aziraphale murmured firmly, having proved his point that even if they could do it, it was a foolish strategy.

Crowley kept arguing, gesturing wildly in the general direction of the pack of children, with Eric among them. “We are _slaves_ to him, angel! We are--”

“Stop. Just stop.” Aziraphale waved away the demon’s words and glanced to the small pack pressed against the viewing windows. The bookkeeper froze for a moment, then also gestured at the youthful group, urging Crowley to “ _Look_ at him.” Crowley didn’t stop arguing, and didn’t turn to look, and so Aziraphale touched his hands gently to the man’s shoulders and spun the redhead around to make him face the direction of the children. _“Look. At. Him.”_

Crowley stopped his rant abruptly, and together, the angel and demon watched the scene in front of them. A little boy was tugging at Eric’s coattails. Eric turned, crouched, and grinned at the child, answering his curiosity with a point at one of the machines. He then gestured to his own back, exchanged nods with the boy, and allowed him to clamber onto his shoulders before standing, giving the six-year-old a better view of the chocolate-making process. The human clung to him merrily, watching the machinery from between the two tall tufts of the demon’s woolly hair.

After a while of silently taking in the sight, Aziraphale took his hands off Crowley’s shoulders and murmured, “We can’t destroy him.”

Crowley’s heat had been effectively extinguished, and he gazed at the picture longer than the angel did. But, eventually, he turned his head and threatened in a dark, solemn tone, “If you’re too _soft_ to do it--”

“That’s got nothing to do with this.” Aziraphale lied. “And even if I were… _open_ to your idea, we sealed a _vow_ , Crowley.”

“What happens if I break the vow?”

“You can’t break the vow, it’s impossible. And that means it’s _also_ impossible for _him_ to break it too, so will you please let it alone?” The angel pleaded, gazing over at him.

Overcome with more curiosity and disbelief than anger at this point, Crowley sputtered, “Does this thing have a time limit? How does it end?”

The tour began moving to another area of the factory. Aziraphale kept pace with the crowd of parents following their children like a migrating herd. “It doesn’t end,” he answered, keeping an eye on Eric as the lesser demon continued carrying the human child on his back like a elder brother.

Crowley followed beside the angel as an auto co-pilot, still fussing over the technicalities of this strange Holy deal. “What? It doesn’t end? _Everything_ ends, eventually.”

There was a renewed peace in the bookkeeper’s tone. “He’s not going to tell, Crowley. He physically can’t. We’re safe.”

Crowley wasn't listening. “Does the bond apply to his _duplicates?”_ The redhead asked, bringing up the same roadblock that the angel used against his plan. “Are _they_ roped into this nonsense too? _Their_ hands weren’t on the bloody Bible,” he spat bitterly.

“That’s enough questions, Crowley.” Aziraphale pinched a glare sideways, unappreciative of him uttering such a harsh curse about the Holy book.

“He’ll find a way around it, Aziraphale, he’s a demon.”

“I said stop with your questions and just _trust_ me!” Aziraphale halted and turned to lift his hands, forcing Crowley to halt as well. The rest of the parents continued pushing their strollers past them to follow the tour group, giving them a few more odd looks-- especially the blonde. The two of them were promptly left in more privacy than before. “You need to have _faith_ that this will all--”

“Oh, I don't wanna hear it.” Crowley interrupted him, disgusted. He stepped around the angel and made to continue down the hall. “I don't wanna hear any of that rubbish.”

Aziraphale caught the demon’s arm above his elbow. The soft grab was enough to make the creature stop and glance back in surprise, but once that had been accomplished, all tension left the bookkeeper’s hold. He slid his touch down to take the redhead’s hand into his. The angel held it earnestly, gently. He applied the same deep compassion in his voice. “I’m not asking you to have faith in God, Crowley, I’m asking you to have faith in me.”

The demon glanced down at their joined hands, stunned by the amount of unconcealed affection in the rare touch.

Between staring upon the serpent’s face, Aziraphale glanced at their surroundings and tightened his fingers around the demon’s with a tiny shake. “You are the most important thing in the universe to me. I did this to protect you. He is bound just as we are, Crowley, he will _not_ tell.” 

He took a breath, which was more shaky than he would have liked it to be, and continued whispering, “You are _safe,_ my dear.”

Crowley remained stunned, his arm limp in the bookkeeper’s grasp. 

“ _I_ am safe.” Aziraphale assured him.

Crowley’s fingers twitched to life before tightening to reciprocate the angel’s hold.

Finally, with great care to craft a precise yet emotion-packed expression, Aziraphale smiled. “I have everything under control.”

Crowley stared at that smile, reading _almost_ everything that lie in it. Finally, he bobbed his head in a dazed nod. “...Alright.”

Aziraphale’s smile softened into something more filled with relief and gratitude. He gave Crowley’s hand another light squeeze, cherishing his possession of it for one additional forbidden moment before letting go.

The angel then strode past him to catch up with the tour group, fiddling with his bow tie and vest the whole way as he cleared his throat and turned his chin up. After a few moments, Crowley followed-- but not before he helplessly stared at his hand while the lingering sensation of the angel’s touch faded from his skin like breath leaving glass.

* * *

The tour ended in the shop, where the horde of parents were trapped-- reunited with their little darlings, who were no longer quite such a delight to watch from afar. Now, they were all a bunch of whining, whimpering, balling brats who would not let their guardians leave unless they bought an expensive souvenir that would be promptly gobbled up in the car during the ride home, and which would then digest into a sugar high that would send the children bouncing off the walls with Granny’s sofa as a springboard. 

At least, the _well-behaved_ ones only whined and whimpered. The less well-behaved ones were completely screaming, having collapsed into full-on fits and temper tantrums. These such children were only consolable by some miracle of chocolate, and lots of it. As soon as the colorfully wrapped box was placed into their enraged little hands, the tears and screaming instantly stopped, and they became little ‘angels’ once again.

Business strategies at their finest.

Eric was waving a hearty ‘goodbye’ to his six-year-old friend just as Aziraphale spotted him in the chaotic crowd. “There you are,” the angel sighed to Eric, glancing after the human child as he left. He looked like a very sweet child indeed. Eric was beaming from ear to ear, turning his attention to the angel and asking, “Are you done fighting with Crowley?”

Aziraphale was caught for a second. “I-- we weren’t fighting. We were arguing.” he clarified. There _was_ a difference.

“Did you win?” Eric asked innocently.

“It’s not a-- a _sport,”_ the angel shook his head, reminded of his guilt. Thankfully, Eric asked his next question, and the demon did so with a cruel snicker.

“He’s pretty upset, inn’t he?”

“He _was_ a bit upset about the deal, yes, but it’s fine now.” Aziraphale sighed. “He just… has little tantrums sometimes.” The blonde hesitantly glanced to one particularly angry little red-haired girl yelling at her parents nearby.

“Nobody’s ever _not_ been allowed to kill me before.” Eric shrugged with a grin. He was very excited about this new predicament.

The angel pleaded, “Don’t get a big head about it,” before gesturing to the counter. “Now, tell that man which chocolates you’d like for today.”

Eric’s eyes glittered when looking at the display beneath the counter, but he remained focused enough to ask, “ What about the lifetime--?”

“I’ll take care of that.” Aziraphale assured him, stepping up to the counter with the demon. He donned a tired smile at the lady at the register. “Hello. We’re going to fill two boxes--”

“Four!” Eric corrected cheerfully, already picking out his favorite treats-- which were practically all of them. The clerk behind the displays was hurrying to keep up with his requests.

Aziraphale blinked slowly, but his smile remained due to centuries of practice. “Four boxes, for today, and I’ll take one of those.” He pointed to an order form, which he was then presented with. As he began to fill it out, he added, “And a box of the dark chocolate griottes, please.” Those were Crowley’s favorite.

He handed the clipboard back to the clerk, instructing, “I’d like an assortment delivered to this address, weekly, indefinitely.”

“U-uh, indefinitely?” the clerk squinted at the form.

“Yes. And, at no charge. Though we will pay for the boxes today.”

The clerk began nervously laughing. “Wh-wh-- sir, seriously, now--”

“I am serious.” the bookkeeper smiled with a nod, fishing out his wallet. “And... I own two thirds of the company.” He presented his I.D.

“Oh, OH, yes, Mr. Fell, I’m so sorry, I’ve never-- I didn’t recognize you.” the clerk’s face was cherry red, and quite panicked.

Eric returned from the glass displays with four boxes of chocolates proudly in his arms. “You have an identity card?” he asked, peering over at it as Aziraphale paid for their five boxes.

“Yes, humans are rather particular about their records. You’ll get one too.” Aziraphale bid goodbye to the clerks and thanked them again. Eric followed him through the maze of unruly children to the door, where Crowley was waiting for them.

As they walked, Eric asked, “Where are you having the lifetime supply of chocolates delivered to?”

“Your new home,” the angel answered.


	6. Chapter 6

Eric’s new home was a single bedroom luxury flat that wasn’t quite as sleek and modern as Crowley’s, but certainly was nothing akin to the warm, old, cluttered bookshop belonging to Aziraphale. Eric’s flat resided at a location that was a suitable distance from both the angel and the demon’s own abodes-- just close enough for them to be within reasonable reach, but far enough that there wasn’t an overwhelming sense of territorial invasion. At least, that was Aziraphale’s intention. Crowley would argue that Eric living anywhere in Europe was a territorial invasion.

Eric placed his four boxes of chocolates on the empty kitchen counter and then proceeded to explore the flat, grinning at the vacant space and inspecting the view that the windows offered.

Aziraphale gravitated to the kitchen counter as well, unfolding a map of the city that he’d taken from the bus across the granite surface. He then took a pen out of his vest and began circling places on the map. “You’ll want to get some furniture, obviously. Here are some galleries that I recommend visiting. You can have them deliver whatever you pick out."

Crowley peered over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t send him to Roche Vellham’s. That place is an _antique_ store.” The demon held his hand out for the pen, and Aziraphale let him have it, hiding a smirk as the redhead began crossing out a few suggestions and circling others. ”FCI. That one’s worth looking at.”

Eric wandered over to look at the map too. “Are those stores close by?”

“You’ll want to take these bus routes.” Aziraphale pointed to the colorful lines of transit on the map after Crowley handed the pen over again.

“And your shop is there?” Eric pointed to a spot.

Aziraphale concealed a sigh as the demon indicated the exact location. “Yes. My shop is there. Do you feel that you have a good understanding of the public transportation system?”

Eric nodded.

“Good. You’ll have to use that until you get a car. And, of course, you’ll have to learn how to drive it first.” The angel flashed a glance at Crowley, subtly assigning him to the task of teaching the young man. Eric also glanced at the demon. A mischievous excitement hinted at the edges of the hare’s grin. The redhead made a less-than-enthused face, refusing to look anywhere other than the map on the counter. He was clearly quite put-off by this whole involuntary obligation.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and seized the reins to the conversation once more. “Now, Crowley and I have to go, ah, tend to some business at the bookshop, but-- I suggest taking some time to yourself to go shopping.” His smile brightened at Eric. “Get some nice things for yourself, and just miracle up whatever amount of money they ask for.” He nodded to end the discussion and then turned toward the door with a gesture of his arm to invite Crowley to lead the way out.

Eric didn’t let them go so easily. “Oh, uh… could I use another way to pay for things?” 

Aziraphale glanced back at him, confused. “What do you mean? A way other than miracles?”

“Yeah. Like, uh, real money. Like what humans use.” Eric shrugged, turning his palms up and dishing out a poorly-constructed explanation.

Aziraphale blinked, inspected the far wall across the room, and then half-shrugged back, “Well, yes... You _could._ You _will,_ in due time,” he explained. “But you need a job first, and payments can take a while to process.” Waving away the question, he returned to his initial advice. “Just miracle some up for now, it’ll be easier.

Eric looked on the verge of either exploding or crumbling apart. “Uh…” He glanced between the angel and demon, wary of Crowley’s sudden scrutinous glare. Eric bounced on his heels slightly, wringing his hands and directing a stage whisper to Aziraphale. “W-what if I... _can’t?”_

The angel squinted. “Can’t... perform miracles?” He glanced to Crowley for clarification, wondering if it were a hierarchical privilege thing. 

Crowley was now grinning, and soon became chuckling. “What’s the matter, Eric? Your wings too damaged?”

Eric glared at him, closing his hands’ grip tightly upon themselves. “They’ll get better,” he grumbled, then more quietly, “Eventually.”

It was then that Aziraphale understood, and felt a twinge of empathy at the lesser demon’s embarrassment. The boy had just been forced to make a rather awkward admission of weakness to both a traitor and an enemy. 

While pulling a credit card out of his wallet, the bookkeeper stepped towards Eric. “Here, you can use one of these for now.” Eric hesitantly took it, being very careful not to accidentally brush fingers with the angel. “Don't lose it. Keep track of what you purchase with it.”

Eric was reluctant to put the card in his jacket pocket. “Okay.”

Attempting to lift his spirit, Aziraphale offered optimistically, “Perhaps you could also go job hunting-- and then you won’t have to worry about any money troubles. You can find one by looking around town. There are plenty of windows with hiring signs. There’s also the classified ads in the paper. You’ll find something.”

Eric did seem a little uplifted, and even more so when he asked eagerly, “What about a pet? And new clothes?”

“We’ll go looking for those tomorrow.” Aziraphale assured him. “First; a job and some furniture. Oh, and…” He fished through his wallet again, “An alternate identity.” He drew out a blank identification card, placing it on the counter beside the map of the city. As the plastic lightly clapped against the granite, Eric’s picture and physical information appeared upon it.

“You will need a full name,” the angel instructed. “Humans don't have just one. They often have at least two, sometimes three. You’ll have to come up with something more than just ‘Eric.’”

Eric stared at the identification card, his smiling lips twitching as if he didn’t know exactly how to measure his excitement. “Like a pen name?” he glanced to the angel, referencing the only other form of Earthly disguise that he was familiar with.

“...Sort of, yes,” the angel supposed.

“What’s your human name?”

Aziraphale took a breath and yielded, “Oh, I change it, every so often. Or when I visit different places. But, here, as a bookkeeper, my human name is A. Z. Fell.” He nodded before adding with a hint of impudence, “Like it’s written above the door.” It was rather difficult not to notice.

“What do the ‘A’ and ‘Z’ stand for?” Eric asked, then guessed with a snicker that wasn't intended to be cruel, but came off as cruel anyway, “‘Aziraphale, Ziraphale?’”

Crowley made a single noise behind his smile, like he wanted to snicker also, but stopped himself just in time. After blinking at the rather stupid joke, the angel shook his head. “...No.” He did not particularly want to get into this discussion, as he had pressing business to attend to in his bookshop that he would much rather spend his time on. But he obliged, “The ‘A’ is for Atticus.”

Eric’s face lit up. “Atticus? That’s a character in a book! _‘How to Kill a Mockingbird,_ ’ by--”

“Yes, it is. It’s also the name of a variety of philosophers, musicians, poets, and others over the course of Earth’s history,” the angel recited tiredly, though not without fondness for each.

Crowley chimed in at that point, contributing with a merry pride, “The ‘Z’ is for Zirconius, after Zirconium, the metallic element with a similar strength to titanium.” Aziraphale glanced back to see the redhead smirking fondly. “And _highly_ resistant to corrosion,” the demon grinned, swaying in a slightly sensual fashion.

Aziraphale might have blushed, but he turned his head away with the primary purpose of concealing a roll of his eyes.

“And ‘Fell?’” Eric prompted curiously.

“Oh, there’s nothing special about that.” Aziraphale huffed. “It’s just a ‘Fell,’ really.”

“But why didn’t you use ‘Phale’ instead?” 

“Uh….” Aziraphale searched the floor for an appropriate answer. “Phonetics!” he burst, grinning nervously. Eric began to question that, but Aziraphale hurriedly moved on, gesturing back to the redhead, “Crowley chose Anthony,” he chirped proudly. “Anthony, J. Crowley.”

“Oh.” Eric perked up. “What’s the ‘J’ stand for?”

Crowley shook his head and lifted one shoulder. “Just a ‘J.’”

“So you see, there’s ah, lots of options.” Aziraphale announced, adding lowly, “And letters.” He gestured for Eric to get on with it. “Pick whatever you’d like.”

“And I can I change my name later, if I decide to?” the lesser demon ventured politely.

“Yes. You can change it anytime you’d like.” Aziraphale’s hands blossomed in the air.

“Okay. I’d like to be uh…” Eric glanced around the apartment as if his human name was lying somewhere within it. It didn’t have many places to hide at the moment. “Eric... Lamour, for now.”

Aziraphale narrowed his cerulean eyes, recognizing the surname’s language of origin. “Lamour?” The bookkeeper was quite surprised by that choice.

“Yes.” Eric nodded shyly. “I think it’s a… a nice name.”

It was a nice name. That was what was so surprising about it. A quiet, genuine smile of something akin to wonder crept across the angel’s face. “Very well. Eric Lamour it is.” And with a snap of the bookkeeper’s fingers, Eric’s human identity was complete.

* * *

Aziraphale opened the door to his shop, chivalrously allowing Crowley through it first. The demon strode into the building with his flattened hands stuffed into his tight-fitting jean pockets, his thumbs untucked. He took a gander around the shop and its four corners, finding nothing amiss. “I thought he wouldn’t let us out of his sight. Or at least be _nervous_ about us leaving.” 

Aziraphale closed the door behind them and ensured it was properly secured in case any curious human tourists thought about ignoring the very obvious ‘CLOSED’ sign. “He knows we can’t do anything nefarious.” He murmured, lacing a subtle reminder into his words.

Sighing contentedly, the bookkeeper tugged his vest down and then began discarding his coat. “And _we_ don't have to worry about _him_ doing anything crafty either.” He directed a happy smile at Crowley as he hung up his old beige coat.

Crowley wasn't as quick to relax. He turned to face the angel, hiking his shoulders up with a confused discomfort. “So… we’re just going to _play along_ with this?” He continued aiming shrugs at various corners of the room. “Be at his every beck and call? _Babysit_ him for an eternity?” Eleven years, for a human, he could do. But an eternity, for a demon? He’d go mad.

Aziraphale gave him a look as he removed his wallet and pocket watch from his clothing. “It’s better than the alternative.” He moved to set his personal items on his desk and then loosened his bowtie-- just a hair. “I'm sorry to have put you through all this,” he murmured with earnest guilt, despite his minor distractions.

Crowley watched him from afar, eyes fixed to the man’s fingers. “As long as it works.”

With nothing else to occupy his fiddling hands with, Aziraphale placed them gently on the back of his desk chair and dragged his focus to the demon. He armed himself with all of the courage he had left in him, and smiled with a great strength of conviction. “It will.”

Crowley nodded, and then hesitated to turn to the door. “Well, I… better get going.”

Aziraphale stopped him with his voice before he could take one step. “Why don’t you stay-- with me, tonight?” The offer was given without grace, broken apart as if he’d thrown the middle part in late, and then slapped on the end of it without thinking it through thoroughly.

His hands were off the chair, now picking at one of his thumbnails. “Last night you were… absolutely miserable,” the angel recalled sadly before donning a rejuvenated optimism. “But there’s nothing to worry about tonight. You could relax. Here.”

Crowley stared at him behind his glasses, having never been explicitly invited to stay over. He’d done so the prior night as more of a self-appointed security measure than anything. 

“I’ll pour some wine. We’ll open the box of griottes.” Aziraphale listed temptation after temptation, willing to do whatever was necessary to earn Crowley’s forgiveness for the Bible stunt. “I’ll convert you to having a fancy for the Roche Vellham camelback,” Aziraphale chuckled, gesturing to the sofa. Crowley grinned. He might have also blushed, but he tore his gaze away with the primary purpose of concealing a roll of his eyes.

Aziraphale shrugged, “It will be lovely.” He smiled, then performed hard labor to numb the expression. Softly, and with as little emotional weight as possible, he asked, “Would you like that?”

Crowley returned his gaze when he had regained enough control of his facade as well, nodding indifferently, “I would.”

Within a few hours, the box of griottes were empty, the bottle of wine was empty, and Crowley was spread across the sofa, fast asleep from sheer exhaustion due to the laughter they’d shared throughout the evening. Or, due to the extensive amount of wine he’d failed to purge from his system. 

Aziraphale was slouched against one corner of the sofa, pinned underneath the demon’s long legs that were slung across his lap like the safety bars of an amusement ride. It wasn't exactly the part of the redhead that Aziraphale would have preferred to be trapped under, but he found it darling nonetheless. And though it was the part of the redhead that would be most easily escapable without disturbing him, Aziraphale made no move to slip out from underneath the demon’s legs. The angel rested his hand upon one of Crowley’s knees and watched him sleep with a peaceful smile, knowing the man would have been tortured and restless and wouldn’t have scored a wink of sleep if he would have gone home to his cold, lonely flat that night.

* * *

A shrill _drrrring_ of greeting echoed from behind the door as Aziraphale pressed a button in the hallway. After waiting for an uncomfortably long extent of time, he pressed the button again, and the shrill _drrrring_ sounded from within once more. The angel glanced over his shoulder with a perturbed expression. “Do you think he knows about doorbells?”

“Prolly not.” Crowley muttered, his expectations of the lesser demon remarkably low.

“Eric?” Aziraphale called before knocking lightly upon the door. “Eric, it’s us. Will you open up, please? I know you’re in there.” He could smell him. The blonde dipped his head to watch the floor as he waited. Then, he threw a glance over his shoulder again, his brow furrowed. “By the way, is it just me or does it smell a little _extra_ demonic in there?”

Crowley made a face and inhaled, testing the scent of the air. “M-maybe a little, but it’s not anything… _concerning.”_ Meaning, it wasn't a _new_ smell.

Aziraphale was already flicking his hand to unlock the door via a miracle. He turned the knob and slowly stepped into the flat, calling softly, “Eric?” The flat was just as they’d left it the day prior, except adorned with some new furniture, and other additions. 

There were three couches of various styles against the same wall, one half-built, and the other two built wrong. Freshly opened cardboard boxes and clean plastic packaging were strewn across the floor in a sea of what should have been recycling material, yet hadn’t made it to their proper bins yet. The kitchen had not one, not two, but _three_ coffee makers-- all on top of the refrigerator, of all places-- and a mighty plunger was stationed at the sink.

Rolls of toilet paper were skewered by the thin curtain rods above all the windows-- where drapes were supposed to be hung. A dish drying rack was on the ground by the door, holding a mismatched pair of women’s sandals that looked as if they had been collected from a trash bin. The only ordinary-looking thing in the flat was a bookshelf by the corner, assembled properly, and empty except for one certain _‘Phantasmagoria and Other Poems,’_ which sat nicely upon the tallest shelf.

“Good _God._ ” Crowley blessed, taking in the sight of the horribly-decorated flat. It was atrocious. The lad had no sense of style at all-- unless homey homelessness had suddenly become the new hit fad overnight without his knowing.

It was a good thing that Aziraphale had the sense to avoid stepping on the opened cardboard boxes, because one suddenly rustled, startling him. He jumped back as a furry face poked out from underneath the edge, its furry nose wiggling and tall ears erect.

“Oh.” Aziraphale caught his breath, thinking his brief flash of fear to be rather silly. “I see he got a pet.” The angel adjusted his coat irritably, noticing another creature rustling beneath some plastic wrapping. It was another rabbit with a curious expression and a few scars lying in its unkempt fur, just like the first. Eric must have rescued them from a shelter. 

“Two pets.” Aziraphale corrected himself. But actually, there were five in total. Five rabbits had emerged from various hiding places to stare at them, all with bright blinking eyes, wriggling noses, and less than show-worthy coats. “Oh dear.”

“Those aren’t pets.” Crowley sneered, glaring at the rabbits in turn.

Eric was suddenly behind them, piping a chipper, “Hello!” They both flinched tremendously.

Aziraphale exhaled and turned closed eyes to the ceiling. Sighing and pinching his nose, he muttered, “Hello, Eric.”

“I got some furniture!” Eric announced joyfully with all of his attention on the angel, seeking his approval. Aziraphale nodded, already exhausted and the day had only barely begun. “Yes, I see.” 

“And a job!” A second voice came at the blonde from the other side. “Just like you said!” The angel spooked at the appearance of an additional Eric and took a large step towards Crowley while looking upon the duplicate with bewilderment.

Crowley lifted a hand to catch the angel’s shoulder as the bookkeeper came to stand beside him. “Aziraphale, meet Eric.” The redhead gestured forward at the copy, then around at the three remaining rabbits nosing about the flat. “And Eric, and Eric, and Eric. _They’re all Eric.”_

Aziraphale was stunned-- and upset. He turned his astonished expression upon the original Eric, accusing with angelic anger, “You _did_ have duplicates! You _lied_ to us on that first day.” He was appalled, while Crowley wasn't surprised in the least bit.

The original Eric lifted a finger and corrected him factually, “No, actually, on the first day, I _didn’t_ have this many duplicates.”

Aziraphale repeated, catching the white lie, _“‘This_ many duplicates?’”

Eric made a face and swayed, unable to think up a way out of the truth. He winced, admitting, “Well, I did have one. But it wasn't on Earth! It was covering for my absence down in the Pit.”

Aziraphale glanced nervously at the second Eric, who was watching them and listening with a patient smile. Then the angel grimaced upon the sight of the three rabbits. _Two rabbits,_ now. There was another Eric in the kitchen, wearing an apron the wrong way. “Do you earn a duplicate per day?” the bookkeeper fretted.

All three Erics shrugged and replied in unison, “Guess so.”

Aziraphale’s laugh was an uneasy one. “That’s-- That’s fast.” Aziraphale did not like it at all.

Crowley scoffed behind his shoulder. “Have you ever heard a _single_ expression about rabbits? _Of course_ they’re fast. And they breed _profusely.”_ He turned to cast a glare across the room, muttering, “Usually when animals overpopulate, it calls for a culling.”

Both nearby Erics eyed him guardedly, while the other rabbits looked very nervous indeed. “Stop it.” Aziraphale waved away Crowley’s threat and asked cautiously, “Eric, have… have _all_ of you been out about the town?”

“Yeah, I got five different jobs already.” Eric announced, joined by his other self who chimed in, “Two start tomorrow and three the next day.”

 _“Five_ jobs?” Aziraphale lamented, glancing between the twins. “Why did you get _five_ jobs?”

The original Eric shrugged. “Well, so I’d never have to worry about money again. That, and… wull, they all looked so exciting, I couldn't decide on just one.” His copy backed him up with an optimistic, “If I have duplicates to use, might as well use them to the best of their efficiency, right?” The little pair of rabbits nodded in agreement, ears flopping. It was clear that any argument the trio would have in the future would be instantly won by majority rule; Eric having all of the majority.

Aziraphale shut his eyes tightly and pressed his fingertips against them. “Oh dear Lord in Heaven, help me.” Crowley was thinking similar thoughts, though not the Holy kind. They were both coming to understand that they’d have to babysit an endless amount of of Erics for the rest of forever. The redhead directed a growl at the general room while Aziraphale prayed.

The bookkeeper matched his hands in front of his nose, breathing silently and re-centering himself. “I see what you mean now, about the compsognathus.” He whispered, interrupting his prayer. Crowley whispered back through his clenched teeth. “I wasn’t joking.”

The rabbit who had hopped onto the more modern-looking sofa turned into a fourth Eric. “You know we can hear you, right?” the lounging Eric asked boldly.

Aziraphale hurried the discussion along, asking sweetly at each of the three Erics surrounding them. “What, uh, what jobs did you all get?”

They answered one by one. First, the one on the couch raised his hand high. “I got a job in construction!” The second Eric put his hands behind his back and stood up straighter. “I’m a bank teller.” The original Eric beamed and folded his arms. “I’m a binman.”

The Eric from the kitchen poked his head around the corner and waved a crooked spatula in one hand, calling, “I’m a chef at Vinny’s!” The Eric on the sofa pointed to the last rabbit, who was washing his face with his dirty paws, which was very counterproductive. “And that one’s a factory worker.” The original Eric turned up his chin arrogantly and declared, “I also applied for university!”

A gust of Hellfire flared up from the kitchen, startling the ineffable duo again. The strips of toilet paper that hung from the curtain rod above the sink vanished in a dazzling display of ash and a puff of black smoke. The Hellfire raged with loud grumblings of flame, melting the stove itself. The Erics hardly noticed, and didn’t seem concerned in the least bit. The Eric who deemed himself a chef probably thought he was doing a fine job.

Whatever the demon was cooking in the kitchen was definitely burning, and from the smell of it, Aziraphale was certain that it was not even a food item at all. The angel gestured for the windows to open and Crowley glanced up at the fire alarm and sprinklers, snapping his finger to disable their sensors.

Aziraphale’s shoulders were heavy with the weight of the burden he’d placed upon them. “Eric, this is getting out of hand,” he declared crossly at the three identical demons. “The humans are going to notice _five_ of the same person around town, who all have the same name and appearance, who live in the same apartment.”

“Oh don't worry!” One Eric grinned, explaining, “We don't come and go all at once.” Another pitched in, scoffing, “No, that’d be too obvious.” The third one assured him, “We stagger our patterns.” Little did the angel know, the demon believed that three-second intervals of their entrances and exits counted as a ‘staggering pattern.’

“Eric, no more duplicates.” Aziraphale demanded firmly.

The Erics were crestfallen. “No more?” Even the dirty-faced rabbit looked hurt, and it squeaked two syllables questioningly.

“No more.” The bookkeeper repeated with a pass of his hand, then remembered to add, “Please.” His tone grew more gentle as he explained, “The point is to hide, remember? Humans aren’t _that_ daft. They’ll notice.” 

But they already had noticed. Many neighbors had caught a comical glimpse of their new tenants flowing through the door of the single bedroom flat like it was a clown car for matching back-up dancers to some grunge punk band.

The Erics looked at each other and exchanged various expressions. Some angry, some sad, but all generally dismayed. The one from the kitchen was clutching his blackened spatula to his chest with both hands as if it were a doll. Red firelight from the inferno on the stove reflected in the hue of his skin. 

Aziraphale gave Crowley a small pleading look regarding the matter and Crowley sighed before trudging off to the kitchen to solve the crime against cooking. “What the _Heaven_ are you doing over here, you imbecile?” The redhead muttered as Chef Eric skittered away, stammering incoherently to try and explain himself and watching Crowley confine the blaze, uncovering the remains of a skillet underneath it. “You can’t cook with Hellfire, it’ll destroy everything. Especially on a gas stove. Are you _trying_ to bring about the second Apocalypse?”

Aziraphale focused on the three disheartened Erics in the living room-- mainly the original one. “I'm supposed to be helping you blend in with humanity, remember?”

Crowley’s snarky voice echoed from the kitchen, the fire of which was now extinguished via a demonic miracle. “That’s not how you cook eggs. Those aren’t even eggs!”

The original Eric brought his eyes up to Aziraphale and slowly stopped pouting. “Alright. I suppose I did get a little over-excited. I wanted to do so much, and I figured this was the best way to do it all.”

Aziraphale gave him a soft look. “You will have plenty of time to do everything you wish. You do not have to do it all at once, dear.”

The other Erics lifted their heads at that word, and the dirty-faced rabbit stood up on his hind legs as if he’d heard something as startling as a gunshot. Aziraphale also realized what he had called the demon, all too late, and again hurried past the moment. “Now let’s go look at some new clothes for you.” He gestured to the door while glancing at the others. “The, uh… the rest of you can....” He didn’t want to leave them all unsupervised, but he also didn’t want to have to deal with them all at the mall. It’d be comparable to taking a whole classroom of young children to the zoo. Or vise versa, and neither sounded pleasant at the moment.

Crowley stepped to the open window above the sink to toss out a heap of black goo from the warped once-skillet. Whatever the failed cooking experiment was, it landed with a loud _plop_ in an outdoor trash bin.

“Let’s take them all, angel.” The redhead called, also tossing the empty mangled skillet out the window on second thought. Even a miracle couldn’t salvage that piece of kitchenware. It clattered loudly in the alley below, causing a street cat to yowl. Chef Eric looked out the window after Crowley stepped away, disappointed to learn that his cooking was rubbish.

Crowley sauntered back into the living room, his clean-up duty finished. “Like he said, might as well use them to the best of their efficiency!” he declared, strutting straight out the door. Aziraphale, the Original Eric, the Second Eric, Couch-Potato Eric, Rubbish Chef Eric, and Rabbit Eric all followed behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

“Next!” Crowley barked while the Erics moved in and out of the changing rooms as if they were in a comedic farce. “Nope, not that one. Take if off. Throw it in the ‘No’ pile,” the redhead instructed with a wave of his hand. He was like a fashionista drill sergeant, except with measuring tape hanging from his neck instead of a whistle.

The Eric that was up for judging glanced down at the white leather jacket he was wearing. “But it has frills!” he protested, fluffing the frilly bits as he whined. Aziraphale had lost track of which Eric had been which in the apartment, and to make things more complicated, the rabbit-shaped demon had transformed into a human-shaped demon at some point.

“I said no!” Crowley bellowed firmly. The Eric sighed and unzipped the jacket. “Ah-Ah! In the dressing room! This isn’t a strip tease.” Crowley snapped, shooing him away.

“Oh, right!” The Eric hurried into the dressing room, dodging another Eric who simultaneously emerged from the practically revolving door. “How’s this one?” The new Eric presented a black leather jacket with a striped pattern on one shoulder and a diagonal zipper. Crowley made a face and teetered his hand. “Ehhhhh, put that in the ‘Maybe’ pile.”

Aziraphale had no idea what criteria Crowley was using to make his judgments, but he figured that black was usually a safe bet when it came to the demon’s preferences for color. Or lack thereof. The angel was sitting on a waiting lounge like a clueless grandparent watching a pair of teenagers try on gowns for a ball. Most of his suggestions had ended up in the ‘No’ pile, and the few choices of his that had miraculously made it into the ‘Maybe’ pile probably only made it there because of some sense of courteous sympathy from Crowley, though the demon would never admit it.

The ‘Yes,’ ‘Maybe,’ and ‘No’ piles were each a shopping cart, with the two former about half full, while the latter one was mountainous. The boutique clerks looked on the verge of fainting, and would have surely kicked the seven of them out had the clothes not been terribly expensive-- and therefore worth allowing the group to stay and purchase whatever they liked. Well, whatever _Crowley_ liked.

The bookkeeper had to admit, the demons’ efficiency was astonishing. Nobody was ever left waiting, and the Erics were constantly busy dressing and undressing in their changing rooms, always alternating so that there were never more than two people at the same time in one room. And there was always (as Crowley had insisted) one Eric standing to be inspected. “Next!”

The Eric clad in the black leather ‘Maybe’ jacket swapped places with the next Eric,who was wearing a silver button-up, a dark grey single-breasted waistcoat, and a lighter grey velvet suit.

“Tuck in your shirt.” 

Eric began stuffing the bottom of his shirt under his waistband. “What’s a strip tease?” he asked innocently.

“It’s a form of entertainment that is the _opposite_ of what we’re doing, now that’s all you need to know.” Crowley explained vaguely and carelessly, snapping his fingers to change the suit jacket’s lapels from notch to peak. Eric was pretty sure the redhead _was_ entertained by this, but he didn’t argue the matter.

“Now what the blazes is going on with your necktie?” Crowley scowled.

Eric looked down at the strip of black rose silk hanging in front of his own chest. “I did exactly what you did with yours.”

Crowley rolled his entire head and trudged forward. “This is a _scarf,_ not a tie.”

Eric accused with a point of his finger. “I know scarves, and that is _not_ a scarf!”

“Don’t argue with him, Eric.” Aziraphale warned, feeling a headache coming on. He closed his eyes and tried to rub it away.

“Well, It _looks_ like a tie.” Eric pouted, stiffening up as Crowley snatched the black rose silk right off of him. He stood rigid as Crowley turned his shirt collar up and strung the item around the back of his neck.

“It’s _not_ a tie,” Crowley finalized, weaving the knot of Eric’s necktie with slow movements and expert fluidity. “ _This_ is a tie, and you wear it like _this.”_ With a quick slide of his hand, he drew up the knot rather high against the hare’s throat, causing him to flinch in fear and discomfort more than anything else. Crowley smirked at him and folded his shirt collar down. “Like a snare.”

 _“Crowley,”_ Aziraphale threatened from the sofa behind the redhead. 

Crowley’s smirk wavered. “That’s a ‘Yes,’ all of it.” He jerked his head to excuse the demon. Eric returned to the dressing room, fiddling with loosening the necktie.

With one hand still poised to his head to ward off a headache, Aziraphale glared lowly at the redhead for the entire duration of his journey back to the sofa.

“Oh, come on. I’m not gonna hurt him.” Crowley muttered disappointedly. He collapsed onto the piece of furniture, slinging one arm onto the spine of it and therefore opening up the side of himself that was facing the angel. With a long sigh through loose lips, Crowley let a hint of his exhaustion show. Then he bitterly added, with a helpless gesture of his hands, “I _can’t,_ remember?”

Aziraphale didn’t wish to turn his head to maintain his glare upon the demon, and so he instead directed his grumpy expression at something else in front of him. Crowley continued his rambling complaints, reciting, “We will not bring any harm to him.” 

He tipped a nod to the blonde. “That’s what you said, in your little Angelic deal.” Crowley remembered every blessed word. “He may read all of your _books_. He will be supplied with a lifetime of _chocolates,_ he will own a _pet,_ and he will get a _job_ and new _clothes.”_ The demon bobbed his head with each item on the long, long list. “He will learn to drive a _car._ He will take a trip to _Disneyland,_ and he will learn to _live_ among humans as _we_ do.”

He held up a finger, remembering the correction there. “We will _teach_ him how to live on Earth. _Properly,_ like a real human. _Both_ of ussss.” He hissed at the far wall, which was now suffering both of the celestial beings’ ill tempers. “We won’t send him or any of his duplicates back down to Hell, by death or by any other means.”

“And we will _not_ destroy him… or his duplicates... with Holy Water. Or any _other_ Holy thing, which you so graciously added.”

Aziraphale blinked drowsily. Those were indeed all of the terms, and Crowley had done a fantastic job at recalling them nicely and accurately. The bookkeeper was rather impressed, and might have been a bit proud-- except that he was starting to regret coming up with that Holy Vow idea. It was proving to be an enormous responsibility.

As Crowley tagged on, “All of which, I _never_ agreed to,” the angel began rubbing his head again, drawling, “I _know,_ dear. We’ve been over this.”

“Are you two finished arguing?” One of the Erics called from the dressing room, echoed by another. “Shall one of us come out now?” And then a third. “We’re all ready.”

Crowley growled to himself before calling, “Yes, yes, come out, all of you!” His system of efficiency was ruined. With much less passion than before, he tossed a tired point to each Eric. “No, no, Yes, uhhh…. Keep the top part, try different trousers, and _you,_ you can…”

The last one was wearing a tight-fitting silk shirt that was a muted maroon color. The outfit showed off the shape of the demon’s pectorals and biceps rather well, which were no longer buried under unnecessary winter or formal layers. Crowley twirled a finger. “Spin.” The Eric obeyed, rotating himself until he was told to stop.

“What do you think of that one, Aziraphale?”

The blonde hesitated, certain that the demon would disagree with whatever he said no matter what it was. He also suspected that the demon was only asking for his opinion to _stall,_ and prolong Eric’s spinning. “I, um…. think it’s a bit too small for him.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and the shirt size changed. “Better?” he murmured gently to the angel, then snapped his voice loudly at the hare, “I didn’t tell you to stop!” Eric obediently kept spinning.

The fact that the redhead was being a bit of a sadistic bully did not go unnoticed by the angel. “You can stop spinning, Eric,” the bookkeeper permitted. There was a hint of annoyance in his tone that was directed at Crowley. Eric seemed torn, wishing to stop, but fearing Crowley’s wrath. So, to compromise, he continued spinning, but only half as fast. Aziraphale sighed, moving his hand from his hairline to his mouth, where he rested his lips against his knuckles. 

“What about the color?” Crowley asked, mulling it over in his own mind.

Aziraphale muttered from behind his hand, “If I could _see it,_ I would answer.”

Crowley surrendered, calling, “Alright, that’s enough spinning!” Eric wobbled to a halt and blinked rapidly, sighing with great relief.

Aziraphale looked over the man from afar, unable to ignore the scars that were visible on his forearms and neck. Forcing himself to disregard them, the angel eyed the color of the silk shirt and decided, “I think it’s nice.”

“Throw that in the ‘Yes’ pile.” Crowley ordered, then scoffed hopelessly as the dizzy Eric began unbuttoning the shirt. “Eric, what did I say? In the _dressing room!”_

“Right!” Eric apologized, hurrying off. But the damage had been done-- rather, it had been revealed. Aziraphale had noticed a patch of pale burn scars on the man’s chest after one of his buttons had popped open.

“Eric, come back.”

Eric hesitated, turning over his shoulder to glance at the bookkeeper, then at Crowley for permission. Crowley was looking at Aziraphale with a heavy dose of surprise. Aziraphale beckoned the lesser demon back to the judging floor, instructing, “Take your shirt off.”

“A _zira_ phale!” Crowley exhaled at the same time that Eric inquired, “Do you _want_ me to do a strip t--?”

 _“No,_ that’s not--” Aziraphale shook his head and waved away both of their vulgar conjectures, clearly not in the mood to handle their incorrect assumptions. “Just remove your shirt.”

Eric glanced between them, wondering if this was part of their argument. If Aziraphale was making some kind of power move against the redhead by regaining control over the situation. The hare decided he’d rather listen to Aziraphale than Crowley anyway, so he did as the angel asked and finished unbuttoning his shirt.

Eric pulled the maroon silk off each arm and then folded the shirt over his wrist. He stood there, bare-chested and waiting. Crowley did not look at him, but Aziraphale did. Eric had never really been bare-chested before, but it wasn’t that strange to him, and he wasn't self-conscious. He knew humans undressed for certain occasions. Like when they went to sleep, or out swimming. He figured this was just like trying on another outfit, except it was an _underneath_ kind.

That’s all that a body was, anyway. Something that a soul wore, every so often. And just like clothes, bodies could be all shapes and sizes, all styles and colors. Some nice and new, or some tattered and torn. Eric didn’t think there was anything particularly alarming about his.

But there was.

Before long, Aziraphale pulled a well-crafted smile over his face. “That will be all.” The angel nodded like the joints in his neck needed to be oiled. “As you were.” Eric returned to the dressing room after tossing the maroon shirt into the ‘Yes’ basket, oblivious to anything that had just transpired.

Crowley was still looking away, and did not call for the next model. He felt the icy chill of Aziraphale’s stare, and it made him fidgety. Finally, he snapped a curt _“What?”_ over at the angel.

“Were you trying to keep that from me?”

There was no use in feigning ignorance or pretending not to know what he was talking about. The boy had scars that no human could imagine. _“No.”_ Crowley crossed one of his knees over the other, twisting himself up tightly and resisting the urge to fold his arms. “I was trying to keep him _modest_ , as you usually _prefer_ people to be.”

“Care to explain why he looks like that?” Aziraphale did not take his stern gaze off the redhead. “Like he’s been through a _volcanic blender.”_

“You _know_ why he looks like that.” Crowley hissed defensively. Aziraphale did know, but he wanted to hear it from the demon. He waited. Crowley eventually muttered, glancing all across the room for a way to change the topic of conversation. “...Without any miracles, he can’t heal himself from a fight.”

“And that’s intentional, isn’t it?” Aziraphale gestured at the changing rooms with an open palm. “That his wings are so damaged, that he doesn’t have any miracles to defend--?”

Crowley barked, “Look, I’m not the one who did all that to him, so stop acting like--”

The bookkeeper was in the mood to argue. _“Just_ Hastur and Ligur?”

“Well, no.” Crowley admitted uncomfortably. “Not _‘just.’”_

“Who, then?”

“...Everyone.”

“Everyone _except_ you?” Aziraphale pressed incredulously, aiming to teach the demon a lesson on bullying right here, right now.

“I’ve been on Earth for six thousand years, Aziraphale.” Crowley growled, still refusing to look at him.

“And before that?” The angel was trying to get him to admit to his contributions, no matter how long ago or how minor they were. Even if all the serpent did was stand by and _allow_ it to happen, that was still unacceptable.

“It’s _Hell,_ Aziraphale. It’s a dog-eat-dog world down there. You pick on somebody else, force ‘em to be _less_ than you, so _you’re_ not picked on-- so _you’re_ not the one at the bottom of the food chain. It’s how you _survive.”_ Crowley pushed himself up from the sofa in a huff. “A pampered angel like yourself wouldn’t understand.”

“I think I do, Crowley.” Aziraphale countered gently. The bookkeeper truly thought about it, and then thought about it some more. Finally, he nodded. “I think I do understand.” He turned his blue eyes up to the demon, declaring calmly, “I may be just a ‘pampered angel,’ but I think I understand _him_ far better than… than I thought I would.”

Crowley was staring at him, warily perplexed.

Aziraphale took a breath, stood up, and came to stand beside the demon before calling to the changing rooms, “Eric.” Five heads popped out from behind the doors. The angel asked for them to gather, placing his hands behind his back like a proper sergeant. “Come out, all of you.”

When they were at attention on the floor, the blonde nicely announced their next course of action. “That will be enough clothes shopping for today. I think we’ve found more than enough to tide you over for a little while. We should be heading to the pet shop before they close. One of you will come with me, and Crowley will take the rest of you home for some… redecorating.” The Erics were elated, glancing at each other with tickled grins.

“But before that, Crowley has something to say to you.”

The redhead twisted a glare of confusion at the bookkeeper that begged the question, _‘I do?’_

Aziraphale murmured to him with a sideways look, “I think you know what it is.”

Crowley’s face scrunched as he grumbled _“Why?”_ He saw where this was going, and it was ridiculous.

“Because it’s what's right.” Aziraphale answered, turning to look upon him with a cool expression of expectation. He was holding the demon at a very high standard, but he had faith in his ability to reach it. “Because he deserves an apology.” He added to the list, “And because I am asking you to.”

Those were fairly straightforward answers, and Crowley appreciated that, even if he did not like them. The demon appeared as if he’d just tasted a new flavor that did not sit well with him, and he shuffled his feet while casting his shaded gaze elsewhere. Aziraphale waited, and the Erics did too, wondering if this was really happening.

“I’m sorry.”

The Erics were still shrouded in disbelief. One of them spoke up while the others glanced at each other. “You’re… sorry?”

“For tormenting you.” Crowley patiently elaborated, his voice soaked in only mild vinegar.

“Oh…” Eric wrung his hands, his duplicates still stunned and at a total loss. The hare risked a glance at Aziraphale, and requested a reminder as if he were fishing for an answer on a test. “What do I say back?”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Aziraphale smiled, far more genuinely than before. “Now, shall we go?”

The lesser demon nodded distractedly, wracking his brain while following the angel toward the entrance of the boutique, leaving Crowley and his four copies behind.

“Oh, I remember!” He spun around, beaming as he tossed the phase to the redhead, “I forgive you!”

The words may as well have hit Crowley like a train loaded with bricks. The only reason he hadn’t been knocked onto the next continent was because he was simultaneously rooted by the words, too stuck in his frozen state to even turn and watch the pair leave the store. By the time the spell broke, the angel and hare were already gone, and he felt a sinking feeling in his gut.  
  


* * *

It was a warm, sunlit day in London. Every Earthly thing was bathed in a glow of light, and Eric couldn’t keep up with the whirling scenery fast enough as he watched out the window of the bus. Aziraphale sat in the aisle seat, twisting his golden ring around his pinky finger, too busy fretting to appreciate the day.

“You didn’t... have to say that,” the angel informed the demon as they waited through the ride. “Especially if you don’t actually, uh… forgive him.”

“Oh, but... I do.” Eric glanced over at him, surprised by the bookkeeper’s tone. It made Eric think back over what he’d said, and he slowly came to realize the weight of the words. Words that were never meant to be uttered to a demon-- perhaps, especially _by_ another demon.

But then the hare pointed out, _“He_ didn’t _have_ to say sorry, even though you asked him to.” Crowley committed the sin of decency first, so Eric was perfectly justified in committing it himself. “But he did, and I could tell that he meant it. Just a little. Didn’t he?” He figured that Aziraphale would know him better.

The angel thought back over the conversation too, and slowly came to realize with a small grin, “Yes, I think he did.”

“Yeah, so… I meant it too.” Eric shrugged, then turned his attention to the window again. He smirked to himself, adding, “Just a little.”

Aziraphale smirked as well, his gaze aimed down at his ring. He stopped fiddling with it, and closed his hands over themselves in his lap. “Explain to me how the duplicate thing works,” he requested, tipping his head toward the boy. “Are you… _all_ interconnected?”

Eric glanced over at him again, yapping a bright, “Yeah! We share everything-- only through different channels. Like, ah... computer screens. Or vigilance cameras, all wired to one system. Same machine, just multiple views and sensory inputs.”

Aziraphale understood the gist of that, and he slowly nodded, “How fascinating.” With another measure of worry, he murmured, “And quite overwhelming, indeed.”

Eric thought he was talking about how it must be for him, so he answered with a careless lift of his shoulder. “I’ve gotten used to it.” He focused on the window again.

The angel eyed him while his watch was elsewhere. “How many can you have at one time?”

“Oh, I haven’t found a limit yet.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and exhaled nervously, “Oh, Lord.” His exhalation turned into an involuntary laugh as he briefly tossed up his hands in hopelessness. “Could take over the world.”

Eric whirled his attention back on the angel. “...Could I?”

The bookkeeper gave him a double glance, murmuring, “No,” then bursting, “No!” He equipped more nervous laughter, quickly erasing what he’d made the mistake of saying. “Oh, _no,_ no, no, I was joking!” His smiling face was tight with terror. “Completely joking!”

“How funny.” Eric murmured, staring at the back of the bus seat in front of them, pondering the idea. It was soon clear that he was not referencing Aziraphale’s joke. He didn’t even consider it a joke-- but instead a newfound possibility. “Me, taking over the world. Huh.” He thought about it some more, then turned a grin at Aziraphale and wheezed into a fit of laughter.

Aziraphale reciprocated the laughter minimally, and with great discomfort. “Hehhh, yes.” The angel rubbed his palms over his knees and searched the bus, praying that their stop was coming up soon, and calculating if it would be viable to get off the bus now and walk the rest of the way.

“Little me.” Eric snickered to himself, shaking his head. He quickly became a bit sullen, finding comfort in the distractions of the window and shifting his body to face it, aiming his back towards the angel.

Aziraphale was looking at him again, also having been snapped into a totally different state of mind. “You are not little,” he corrected with a surprising portion of harshness. Glaring at his knees, he muttered bitterly, “Don’t let others make you believe that you are little, Eric.” Then the bookkeeper continued calculating the walking distance compared to the upcoming bus stops.

Eric was watching him again, though his body was still angled toward the window. The angel amended with a lift of his finger, “That being said, don’t think that means you _can_ take over the world.”

The hare smiled at him. A long, mischievous smile. The blonde performed a double take at him again, then sighed, shoulders sagging, and entirely surrendered, _“Please_ don’t do it. I would have _no_ way of stopping you, but please, I beg of you, _don’t_ do that.”

Eric grinned, joking with full appreciation of the irony, “Don’t tempt me, angel.” His grin dropped as he realized, “Oops. Crowley calls you that. Sorry.” He had a sudden suspicion that if Crowley ever caught him stealing that, he'd be very, very angry.

Aziraphale should have been grateful for the change in topic, but he wasn’t. He looked as if he wanted to avoid this one just as much as the previous one. “No need to be sorry. It’s what I am,” he pardoned, avoiding what Eric had so blatantly brought into the light.

“No, but he uses it like a name.” Eric elaborated. He dwelled on the detail much more thoroughly than Aziraphale would have liked him to. “Not the, uh, kind you put on an I.D. but, ah… Pet name, is that it?”

“Nick name,” the angel corrected tersely.

“Nick name, yes.” Eric nodded, then laughed again. “Oh, I just realized that’s a pun, isn’t it? Because ‘Nick’ is a name, and yet for someone named ‘Nicholas,’ ‘Nick’ is a nick, name.” He was very entertained by his discovery.

A forgiving, honest smile was brought to the angel’s face again. “You’re right, it is.” The expression was short-lived.

“Back to the whole ‘taking over the whole world’ --which I’m not going to do, don’t worry--” Eric hurried, then interrupted himself, “Well, at least, not anytime soon,” he finally came to his point, “I might be quite good at it. I was a whole army once, during the ah…” He trailed off, recalling the dark memory.

Neither of them wanted to bring _that_ into the light. 

“Right.” Aziraphale murmured, his spirit weighed down.

Eric attempted to talk about something lighter. “Now I’m more of the training dummy for when we _prepare_ for War.” It was his turn to chuckle nervously, unable to avoid the memories he brought to himself. “The past eleven years were not, uh... fun, for me.”

The angel hesitantly glanced to him. “You said you share everything with your duplicates. Do you… also share their pain, Eric?”

Eric avoided the question for a long time, watching out the window diligently.

“As I said, I’m used to it.”

* * *

Snakeskin boots clapped against the pavement as Crowley marched through the streets. Onlookers were convinced that he was a rock star to a new band that was surely popular with the young folk. His four now-fashionable backup dancers trailed behind him like synchronized ducklings. The Erics’ strides would have been as identical as their natural features if they hadn’t been carrying mountains of various shopping baggage. They stumbled here and there, but the Erics generally kept in perfect line behind the redhead, snaking through the light crowd of the shopping district like they were part of an Atari game.

Crowley snapped his fingers at a shop window that he passed, and suddenly a couple of home decor magazines were between his fingers. In exchange, some banknotes appeared in the shop’s register-- maybe just a few pence short, but nobody would notice. The demon handed the magazines to the Eric behind him, and the following Erics fumbled with their hoard to pass it down the line to the last Eric, who had no more room upon his arms to hold anything else, and had to grip the magazines between his teeth.

“Do we really need to get _all_ of this?” one Eric called a cautious complaint. 

“Nope.” Crowley answered bluntly, placing his empty hands back in his pockets. “But we’re getting it anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what humans _do,_ in first world countries,” the redhead scoffed as if it couldn’t be more obvious. As he strut down the promenade, he cast his covered gaze across the shopping district to search for something specific.

“I don’t think we can carry much more,” another Eric coughed from behind his bag of clothes. A third one whined, “Can we please go home now?”

“After one last stop.” Crowley promised, turning to lead his trail of demons straight into his favored beauty supply shop.


	8. Chapter 8

Reptiles, insects, arachnids, and amphibians were out of the question. The angel and the hare were on the same page about that from the get-go, and they passed by those such creatures’ habitats quickly. Eric may have passed by them much more quickly than Aziraphale, who cast a lingering glance at a young ball python who looked very friendly indeed.

Aziraphale’s first suggestion was a dog, but Eric was rather nervous about dogs, no matter how soft and harmless they appeared. Aziraphale could somewhat relate, due to recent events. Eric wouldn’t even approach a pooch, instead only watching as Aziraphale greeted each one with a gentle pet and a heavenly scratch behind their ears. They were carnivores, Eric whined, and he didn’t like their teeth. Not even the small ones’.

The cats also had teeth, but Eric managed to at least approach their kennels. Even with Aziraphale’s angelic presence, the felines acted upset around Eric and clearly did not like him, as the deep rumblings in their throats told them. The older ones seemed intent on swiping at him through the kennel bars, and one even hissed, causing the demon to jump and the angel to scold the cat with a disappointed, “Now, there’s no need for that.”

Evidently, the cats were very attuned to dark spirits, and no human facade would fool any feline about the demon’s true Hellish nature. No matter how the angel urged even the tiniest of kittens to give Eric a chance, they all refused. “The cats say ‘no,’ I’m afraid.” he sighed, moving on through the pet store.

“That’s alright.” Eric followed him, glaring defensively at the felines one last time. “I say ‘no’ to them as well.” They had sharp little claws and fangs, and he did not like them.

The problem was that almost _everything_ had claws and fangs, save for the fish. Eric enjoyed everything about the fish, and stood at their tanks mesmerized for nearly an hour-- except that he kept asking how they each tasted. While Aziraphale did appreciate a good tray of sushi, the demon’s outlook on fish as pets worried Aziraphale. The angel was unable to change the demon’s opinion that all fish were not friends, but rather food. “Let’s get you a creature you can bond with, so you don’t end up eating it when you’re bored at home one day,” the bookkeeper proposed. 

The rodents were next, but Eric declared that the mice and hamsters were too similar to Hellrats. While he had usually got along well with the Hellrats (so long as Hastur didn’t command them to devour him alive,) he wanted to befriend something different on Earth. Aziraphale was starting to worry that they would never find a pet that didn’t bring Eric bad memories, didn’t look like a snack, or didn’t remind him of Hell’s inhabitants.

“I don’t suppose you’d want a rabbit?” the blonde attempted desperately, and by way of a joke. He gestured to a white floppy-eared one who was eagerly asking to be chosen and cuddled and fed lots of carrots.

Eric gave the man a sassy look and rolled his eyes under his long lashes. “Would Crowley want a pet snake?”

Aziraphale sighed, “No, he would not.” He followed Eric as the demon took the lead through the rest of the store. “But he does like them, you know, with everything they have in common.” Aziraphale was willing to go to great lengths to convince Eric that a rabbit would work, that it was a good idea, and that’d he’d be happy with another creature similar to his lesser form. He began using his angelic book-selling tactics to subtly sway the boy’s decision. “Like you, with a rabbit. Their claws aren’t sharp, they don’t have fangs-- It’d be the easiest creature for you to take care of, if you think about it, because you would know precisely what it needs to--”

The angel nearly bumped into the demon’s back. Eric had halted, gasping at a new animal in another cage, “Wow. Look at _that.”_

A store clerk walked up to the two men and joined them in admiring the beauty. “That’s our newest rescue. Would you like to get a closer look?”

* * *

Back at the flat, four furry rabbits were merrily frolicking across the floor while one demon organized the bedroom closet. The redhead’s expression rested in that of a dull grimace as he sorted through their loot, gesturing for jackets, shirts, and suits to hang themselves according to style and color with one hand and ordering matching pairs of shoes to leap onto the shoe rack with his other. One of the rabbits stopped frolicking to watch him, its ears jostling as it whirled its little head this way and that to follow each miraculously flying item. 

“Get off!”

The rabbit squeaked in surprise and darted away as the pair of trousers that it had been sitting on suddenly came to life and levitated to the closet as well. “Go wash your paws!” Crowley commanded harshly as he wiped some dirt off the trousers. “All of you, go on!” All of the rabbits were sent scrambling out to the kitchen sink.

The redhead sighed and glanced around at his half-finished handiwork, unsatisfied with it. He felt grumpy because he felt sick, but he didn’t know _why_ he felt sick. Maybe it was because there wasn't enough room in the bloody flat for all these damned clothes. Or maybe it was because Aziraphale was out with one of the Erics. Unsupervised. Unguarded.

_‘I’m not leaving you alone with him.’_

As Crowley scanned the clothes that were left to be put away, they seemed to echo with recent memories.

_‘I can take care of myself just fine.’_

The demon bared his teeth at the piles, but they did not shut up.

_‘I didn't call you for backup. I didn’t expect you to just pop over like that. At a moment’s notice, all gun-ho and at arms.’_

Crowley began snatching up the overfilled shopping bags and stuffing them into the closet without bothering to take the clothes out of them anymore.

_‘Of course I’d do that. We’re a team, Aziraphale.’_

_‘I suppose I’m not... accustomed to having a… teammate like that, is all.’_

The truth was that Crowley wasn't accustomed to _being_ a teammate-- especially one like that. He wasn't used to caring this much or worrying this much. He’d always been a _carefree_ spirit, and he had rather enjoyed having no cares in the world. But ever since Armadiddn’t, he had one care. One very big care, and it was currently out fraternizing with an enemy.

Crowley had no reason to worry. Aziraphale had used the word ‘we’ in his promises, so logically, Eric couldn’t do anything to either of them that would prevent them from holding up their end of the deal. That word, that use of them as a singular thing, it required that they _both_ had to work together to fulfill those orders.

Right? 

Crowley decided to have faith in that, but it was of little consolation. Because in that case, then Eric was only unable to _destroy_ them. But he could very well still kill them. He could very well harm them. He could very well do a lot of things. He’d only promised ‘to tell their secret to no thing at all,’ and promised ‘to be kind to all books,’ and promised ‘not to cause catastrophic terror or harm upon this Earth so long as he lived on it.’

Eric had promised _nothing_ else, and that nibbled at Crowley’s subconscious like a pack of termites. Three promises, compared to their practically limitless promises. They were tasked with teaching the hare how to live on Earth as a _proper_ human, and clearly, he had much to learn. To boot; humanity was constantly evolving. As was evident with Aziraphale’s own outdated habits and tastes, Eric may never catch up to the humans’ developmental progression. They were doomed to perform this dance until the next end of the world.

In fact, perhaps _that_ was their time limit. If Eric hadn’t learned to live as a human (whatever that meant, since the definition of ‘human’ was as vague as anything in God’s plans) by the time that humanity was inevitably destroyed, then there would be no way for them to fulfill that Vow, and their bond would be broken, wouldn’t it? Then Eric could tell their secret to any thing he’d like. All that would be left at that point _would_ be angels and demons.

The more that Crowley thought about all the ways that Eric could cheat around that Holy Vow, the more he felt sick. “Shhhhhhit,” he hissed to himself, alone in the bedroom as the sound of rabbits splashing around in the kitchen sink echoed from the hallway. He was frustrated that Aziraphale hadn’t thought through this. But of course he hadn’t, because he was an angel, not a demon. As crafty as angels believed they were, they were nowhere near as crafty as demons. They didn’t question things like demons did. And Crowley in particular had always questioned things to the greatest of extents. Socrates had been quite fascinated by the redhead’s talent for it.

Crowley drew his hands through his red hair, pulling it upwards with a strong grip. He was starting to regret not speaking up during that Holy Vow. As much as he would have hated partaking in anything _actually_ righteous, he could have done more to protect Aziraphale from his foolish, naive self. He could have demanded that Eric promise not to bring _them_ harm, promise not to send either of _them_ to Heaven or Hell, and promise not to destroy _them,_ even if that was already an underlying contingency. Better safe than sorry, they always say. 

At the moment, Crowley was feeling very, very sorry, and not very safe at all. 

That Vow had not helped Aziraphale and Crowley. That Vow had only allowed them out of the Hellfire and into the frying pan. Eric had already proven to be a terrible chef.

At the peak of the redhead’s fit of anxiety, he threw up his clawed hands and commanded every article of clothing they’d purchased to fly into the closet. It all packed tightly into the small space as if it were a vacuform machine. Crowley then slammed the double doors shut and leaned forward on his arms, his palms pressed against the panels to keep them closed.

Breathing heavily at the floor, he reigned in his frantic mind. His mental cogs were whirling so fast they were starting a fire behind his already-burning eyes. They screeched to a merciful halt when a voice startled him from behind.

“Mister Crowley?” 

The redhead straightened up and turned a glance over his shoulder to spot Eric in the doorway. The young man was leaning against the door frame and picking at his nails absent-mindedly.

“What are you doing?”

Crowley caught his breath and focused back on the doors he pressed against. “Organizing your closet, what’s it look like I'm doing?”

It didn’t look like he was organizing anything at all, in Eric’s opinion. The hare lifted his brows before wincing candidly, “It looks like you’re having a bit of a panic attack.”

Crowley grumbled in argument, “There’s just a lot of clothes.” He then whisked open the double doors to reveal a grand walk-in closet-- the size of which Runway fashion models could only dream of. If the landlords ever stumbled across it, they’d triple the demon’s rent. But only after wondering how the Hell the feat was even possible, since Eric was supposed to have a neighbor on that side of his flat. 

“But it’s all sorted out, now.” And it was. Every item was organized impeccably, and the new closet practically sparkled with perfection. A grin crept at the edges of Eric’s face as he gazed upon the miraculous renovation, and he forgot all about what he’d witnessed concerning Crowley’s panic attack.

“Your hands clean?” The serpent asked, stepping around the bed to march for the door. Eric stepped well out of the way, holding his hands up to show their cleanliness of as well as show a sign of surrender. “Yes.”

“Right. Next item of business, then.” Crowley sighed, leading the way into the kitchen where three wet rabbits were politely drying their paws on a kitchen towel.

* * *

The creature that Eric had become so mesmerized by was a blue and gold macaw. The large parrot blinked and tilted its head, studying the demon with inquisitive eyes surrounded by a pattern of tiny black and white feathers that gave it a mask of zebra stripes. Its back was coated in an azure blue and its front was a vibrant lemon-yellow. A patch of grass-colored feathers sat above its dark tropical beak, which was built for digging into juicy fruit and cracking open seeds. A beard of black feathers lied under its chin, fluffing with eagerness as it croaked, “Hello!”

Eric unleashed a laugh, stepping back and whirling to Aziraphale. “Did you hear that?!”

“Yes, she can talk,” the angel confirmed.

The store clerk unlocked the aviary and reached their hand in to greet the parrot with clicking sounds and a stroke of their finger down the bird’s chest. “Macaws are very personable, but they require a lot of work. They also get rather rowdy when they’re bored, but who can blame them?”

The parrot continued uttering in an inhuman voice, “Wassup? Hello! G’day!” 

Eric was riveted, mouth agape. Aziraphale kept a sober smile and asked the clerk about the parrot, most importantly, “Is she good with children?"

“Yes, her previous family had quite a lot of them.”

 _“Small_ children?” Aziraphale clarified.

The clerk grew nervous. “Yes… though I wouldn’t recommend getting a macaw for one.”

Aziraphale tipped his head toward the awestruck person beside him. “We’re looking for a pet for him.” 

The clerk exhaled in relief. “Oh, yeah, he should be fine.” They didn’t get the hint that the full-grown man in question wasn’t much different than a small child.

Another customer arrived over at the register, and the clerk appeared torn by their duties. “It’s alright. I can take it from here.” Aziraphale assured them, miraculously easing their mind. The clerk left the key with him and went away to go attend to the other customer.

The angel held up his forearm close to the parrot’s belly, and the creature blinked and stepped onto it with its large grey talons, croaking another, “Why hello!”

“That’s brilliant,” Eric huffed, impressed by the animal’s ability of speech mimicry. He eagerly offered back a “Hello there!”

The demon watched as Aziraphale brought the bird out of the aviary, his cream-colored sleeve lifted like that of a falconer. “She’s lovely,” Eric breathed, taken aback by the vibrant colors of her feathers. “Can I touch her?”

“Yes. Like this.” Aziraphale showed him, stroking the bird’s chest with a knuckle, then scratching his fingertips lightly through her neck feathers and down her spine, the bird arched and relaxed her shoulders, enjoying the physical affection, which she thought was social grooming. Eric gave it a try for himself, stroking her chest and scratching her back. He’d never felt feathers so soft.

“Remarkable…” the demon breathed before clarifying, “That people can have birds as pets.”

“Scientists think they're related to ‘dinosaurs.’” Aziraphale smirked, humored by the Earth’s longest running joke.

“What did the clerk mean by a ‘rescue?” Eric asked, his attention fixated on the parrot.

“Animals are often called ‘rescues’ when they are moved from a lesser quality of life to a better one.” Aziraphale explained, examining the bird over and detecting things about her health that no human veterinarian could-- at least with their bare eyes and touch.

“Oh.”

“This bird’s previous owners did not take care of her as well as they probably should have. They definitely had little ones handling her. A bit too roughly.” The angel passed a hand over her two wings and tail, fixing the array of unkempt barbs in her flight feathers. But he didn’t fix everything, and Eric noticed.

The demon pointed from where he stood, refraining from physically touching her damaged wings. “Her primaries...” The first eight were severed.

“Oh, that’s normal.” Aziraphale extended one of her wings gently, showing off the snipped feathers. “You clip birds’ wings when you tame them. It doesn’t hurt, as long as you do it right.”

Eric appeared very concerned. “To keep them from flying?”

“Well, yes. But it’s only to keep them _safe.”_ Aziraphale explained, sensing a sensitive conversation fast approaching.

“To keep them _captive.”_ Eric corrected with a newfound bitterness in his disappointed tone.

Aziraphale applied a layer of patience to his voice, explaining, “If you _don’t_ clip their wings, and the bird gets out, then it’ll fly off and become dinner for a larger, feral bird.” The parrot seemed to either agree or grow worried, grumbling a, _"Rrrrraww."_ Eric wasn’t convinced that was enough of a reason to clip their wings.

“It’s also part of the bonding process.” Aziraphale continued, tickling her shoulder. “They rely on their owners when they’re a little vulnerable.” The macaw turned to inspect his finger with her beak and lifted one of her feet up. Aziraphale let her transfer herself over to his other arm. “It builds trust. Then, once they’re emotionally attached, some owners let the feathers grow out again. Because by that point, the hope is that if they ever do leave, they’ll want to come right back."

Eric slowly recovered from his grumpy attitude as he watched the angel interact with the macaw. “There are actually some bird owners that take their pets out to fly regularly, for exercise. They go up hiking trails, climb up mountains, let their bird stretch their wings.” The parrot shimmied along the bookkeeper’s arm, interested in moving herself closer to Eric to get a better look at him.

“Oh. That’s nice,” Eric murmured, eyeing the approaching parrot skeptically.

“Yes. Always a bit of a risk, though. As I said, the birds could get lost, or attacked by another wild creature.” Aziraphale kept his arm poised as the bird perched on the edge of his hand, her talons lightly gripping his palm. “It may seem harsh, but it’s necessary, and done with good intention,” he concluded his lesson on clipping, noticing her fascination with Eric. “Would you like to hold her? Put your arm up like mine.”

Eric carefully copied his posture and offered his forearm to the bird. The parrot looked down at it, spread her wings, and opened her beak toward it. Eric took his arm away. 

“It’s alright, she’s just testing you," Aziraphale murmured.

“She’ll bite me.” Eric shifted a timorous glance between them.

“Well, just a little," Aziraphale admitted. “That’s how she tests that your arm is sturdy enough to hold her. She can’t fly, remember? So she’s got to be very careful about who she gives herself to.”

“Oh.”

“Try again,” the bookkeeper encouraged gently. “She’ll bite a little, but it’s not an attack.”

Eric lifted his arm to the macaw again. This time, he didn’t move away when she reached forward to nibble it. Aziraphale was right, and it didn’t hurt. She stepped onto his arm, and he smiled at receiving her weight. 

“There you are. Splendid.”

Eric looked her over, beaming and buzzing with excitement. “Wow.” The bird continued mumbling raptor sounds, cocking her head at him. Eric laughed nervously, his arm wavering and beginning to lower.

Aziraphale placed his fingertips to the demon’s elbow, guiding it to lift. “You’re doing wonderfully. Think of your arm as a strong branch for her.”

Eric glanced down at the angel’s touch. It was the first time he’d ever been touched by an angel.

His arm regained some kind of strength that he perhaps had never possessed before. The bird’s long talons soon didn’t make him nervous anymore, and the angel’s warm voice bolstered his confidence. “There, wonderful.”

The macaw agreed, “Won-derful,” bobbing her head drastically and making Eric giggle. He playfully bobbed his head back at her, his face scrunched with delight. 

“I think we’ve found you a pet.” Aziraphale smiled briefly and took his hand away, glancing between the bird and the demon with a sigh of relief that they'd discovered some kind of success.  
  


* * *

Eric’s flat looked no longer like it belonged to Eric, but instead like it belonged to a very stylish young human bachelor with great fashion sense. The cardboard and plastic had all been recycled-- replaced by proper rugs and mats of sleek materials and dark colors. Proper curtains had been draped over the windows. The three coffee makers were now resting on the counter beside the refrigerator, not on top of it. The dish drying rack was beside the sink and a shoe mat was by the door. The plunger and old sandals had been chucked out the window. The couches were arranged on different walls, partnered with small glass tables and some lamps and other sparse decor that made the place look more civilized by the magic of modern minimalism. 

The flat was almost as empty and clean as one of the houses inside the home decor magazines they’d obtained, except that the island counter top had been overtaken by an army of nail polish bottles, cotton pads, moisturizer, files, clippers, and other little trinkets and tools for beauty that could have supplied an entire salon. Crowley sat on a bar stool at one end of the granite slab while the four Erics circled around the rest of it, their hands all laid onto the surface to be treated. A cooking manual ‘for morons’ was pinned open by one of the Eric’s elbows as he perused it.

“Is this a form of torture?” one of the other Erics asked, wincing with great anticipation as Crowley worked on his cuticles. The hare expected an ‘accidental’ pinch or poke at any moment, but Crowley was very skilled at this, and Eric was not subjected to anything worse than the mild physical discomfort of having his hands handled by another person.

“To some people, maybe, but it’s supposed to be rather relaxing, if you do it right.” the redhead murmured, concentrating. “Hold still,” he reminded, snipping away the uplifted edge of Eric’s excess cuticle skin with tiny nippers. When he finished with each of the hares’ hands, he ordered them to soak them in the bowl of warm water. The Erics were glad when all their cuticles were over and done with, but then Crowley moved on. “Now we clip them.”

The Erics were nervous about that part too, but Crowley flew through the process like an artist in an overgrown garden with a hedge trimmer. “Is this… part of a bonding process?” Eric asked, having gradually learned not to flinch at the sound of every harmless clip.

 _“What?”_ Crowley’s upright tuft of hair wiggled as he shook his head. He had no idea what the boy meant by that. Clipping one’s nails had nothing to do with how the polish bonded to the keratin. _“No,_ this is just what humans do,” he grumbled as he moved onto the next Eric’s hand, taking it with a firm but gentle grip. “You want to live like a human, don’t you?” 

He was only being partially honest. This was indeed what humans did, but the true reason he was doing this was for him and Aziraphale to be able to tell the damned demons apart and keep track of them.

“Yeah,” the Erics exchanged glances with themselves, some curious, some nervous, but as time passed with no injury, they all began to relax. Using one as a teaching example, Crowley instructed them how to buffer their own nails. When the time to paint came, they picked their own colors and embellishments, with an array of designs, stickers, glitter, and tiny stencil patterns to choose from. Crowley performed the most complicated of the designs for them, while Chef Eric wanted to try enhancing his own. Crowley made him redo his efforts multiple times, but he eventually got the hang of it, and succeeded in applying a very fancy flame pattern to his fingertips-- just like the one in the online picture Crowley had pulled up from his phone.

“There you go, lovely job.” Crowley evaluated, comparing the design. He felt a pang of a physical ‘yikes’ flash through him as he realized he’d given the demon a compliment. Therefore, he had to follow up with a sassy, “Only a _minor_ disaster.”

Chef Eric saw his slip-up, but didn't comment on it, only smiling to himself and studying his newly painted nails. 

“You’re gonna have to keep reading that book with your elbows. Don’t touch anything until the top coat has dried.” Crowley ordered, leaving him to give his attention to another one, who was mesmerized by the gems on the tips of his ombré pink glitter nails. “How are those ones looking? They dry yet?”

“Almost!” Pink Eric blew on them to expedite the process.

“Good, keep up with that. And you?” The redhead turned to the next one. This Eric had chosen an art deco pattern to his black nails, which Crowley had painted on them with masterfully straight and intricate golden lines. This Eric’s topcoat was nearly dry as well. “Don’t smudge it,” the serpent warned. Art Deco Eric nodded intensely, determined not to touch anything ever again for fear of his nails becoming ruined.

“Are you going to paint yours, Crowley?” The last Eric asked. This one had done his own nails, a simple midnight purple with tiny white flecks to represent stars. Crowley sneered at him and lifted the back of his hand to show, “My nails are already painted, idiot.”

“You could do them differently,” the Purple Eric suggested brightly. The Pink Eric pitched in, “You could add on some jewels!” Art Deco Eric snickered, “Plain ol’ black is _boring.”_ Chef Eric stayed out of it, thoroughly reading his cooking manual with his elbows.

 _“Boring,_ ey?” Crowley snapped with a flash of his teeth, offended.

“Our nails are much prettier than yours.” Pink Eric smirked between blowing gently on his nails.

“You should paint them red!” Art Deco Eric was already searching through the sea of polish bottles. He found some crimsons and held them up to Crowley’s hair to find the matching color. Crowley didn’t pull away, only donning a pouting expression as he was now the prime focus of four fashionista-trained Erics. “Oh, no. Here it comes,” the serpent muttered, knowing he'd lost the battle before it had even begun.

“He’s gotta have something more than just _red.”_ Pink Eric scoffed. “He could have fire, like me!” Chef Eric piped up with a beaming expression. “No, he could have _stars!”_ Purple Eric declared. Before Crowley could even try to protest, the four Erics converged on his hands all at once, giving him quite an amateur-- but efficient-- manicure.


	9. Chapter 9

Before long, Crowley’s fingertips had been decorated in all manner of discombobulated styles. As he watched the Erics perform everything he’d taught them, he found himself rather impressed. And he might have been a bit proud-- if the color scheme hadn’t been that of a nauseated unicorn’s.

“That looks terrible.” Crowley grumbled as Purple Eric began layering the top coat on Crowley’s no-longer black nails. Instead, one was pink with a gem, one was rainbow striped, one was emerald-colored and glittery, one was decorated with orange flames, one was blue with mermaid scales, and so on. None of them matched, and he had five more unique designs on his other hand. “You’re all fired.” 

The Erics were having far too much fun for their own good, laughing and commenting on their combined handi-work-- and the pun that lied within that word. Crowley rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were no longer scowling.

When the majority of their masterpiece was finished, Pink Eric and Art Deco Eric sauntered off to compare their own nails with their grand closet full of clothes, while Chef Eric snuck away to read his cookbook. Purple Eric remained sitting at the kitchen island to finish the job of applying Crowley’s top coat.

The hare grabbed a cotton pad when a little of the clear polish ran off the side of Crowley’s nail. He wiped the gel off the serpent’s skin with careful precision, as if moving through an intricate act of surgery. The redhead’s hand lay dormant on the surface of the counter, relaxed under the other demon’s touch with the same learned trust that Eric had come to possess when the situation had been the other way around.

Demons did not touch one another, unless it was in attack. Angels did not touch one another either, unless it was in blessing. Physical contact was largely a human thing, and it had been a foreign practice to Crowley for the longest time. But, after over a few dozen centuries, one grew accustomed to it. Even _craved_ certain types of it, at times. There was a kind of magic to be found in touching another soul.

Crowley silently studied Eric from behind his sunnies, noting the laser-focused attention of the hare, and how his luscious lashes fluttered with every subtle movement of his brown eyes. He was doing a rather fantastic job, indeed.

For the first time, Crowley looked at the boy without hatred, and he felt rather confused about that. It made him a little cross, but he was only cross with himself. Crowley pulled his gaze away, and it settled upon the single book on the hare’s bookshelf.

“...Did you really walk into Aziraphale’s shop that day looking for that stupid thing?”

The redhead’s low, tired tone was not accusatory. Only curious, and maybe a bit somber. In that moment, Crowley desperately-- perhaps more desperately than in any moment before-- wished to be proven wrong about his dark suspicions.

Eric glanced up at him, pausing in his work and then turning to follow his gaze to ‘ _Phantasmagoria and Other Poems_ ,’ 

The hare answered with a similar tone, though his expression was smiling. “I really did.” 

He continued painting on Crowley’s top coat with a distracted sluggishness. “I, ah… I debated it for a long time. I thought he’d smite me on sight. Especially after the whole Heavenly trial thing,” he hummed with weak humor. 

Crowley did not share in it. The whole ‘Heavenly trial thing’ was not a fond or humorous memory for Crowley.

“But I wanted to find that book, and I figured that if he killed me, I’d still have one copy of myself down in Hell,” Eric shrugged.

“You could have found that book elsewhere.” Crowley was watching the demon intensely. “In a shop _not_ owned by a Principality.”

Eric blinked. He tried to focus on keeping his hand steady as he guided the brush of clear polish down Crowley’s second to last finger nail-- which had been decorated with tiny star stickers via the artistic vision of an over-sized four year old. 

Eric could feel the heat of Crowley’s stare upon him. It burned hotter now than it had all day.

“No more lies, Eric.”

Eric glanced up, arguing, “I’m not lying, I--”

“No more _avoiding it,”_ Crowley bit the consonants, but his tone remained benign. “What’s the _real_ reason that you walked into Aziraphale’s shop that day?”

Eric breathed carefully, then finally admitted what Crowley had already surmised; that it had nothing to do with that silly book. “....I wanted to talk to him.”

Crowley let that sit in the air between them for a while before tilting his head and prompting, “Is that all?"

“Yes,” Eric muttered, unhappy that Crowley had stolen that secret from the security of his own mind. He waited for his hand to stop shaking, desiring it to be steady again before applying the next layer of topcoat on the serpent’s pinky nail; the last nail he had left to do. 

But Eric’s hand didn’t stop shaking, and so he remained trapped there with an unfinished job. “I was curious about him. No angel has ever done what he’s done.” He placed the brush back in the bottle to look busy re-equipping some polish.

“And what’s that?”

Eric wrapped his fingers around the little bottle, feeling it’s cool glass against his warm skin. “...Befriend a demon.”

The kitchen island had somehow transformed from a fun work station into an interrogation desk. Eric didn’t meet Crowley’s burning gaze, instead shrugging defensively, “And-- I don’t know…. I thought…"

“Go on.”

“I thought that maybe… he might be a little friendly to me, too.” The polish bottle’s glass no longer felt cold to him, and he took his hand off it to find something else to touch. The granite counter top was cool underneath his sweating palm. He began picking at a spot where pink nail polish had dripped onto the surface. “It was a stupid thought, but… he _was._ He _was_ a little friendly to me. He gave me that book.”

“Only to get you out of his shop,” Crowley countered calmly, remaining very neutral about all of this.

Eric looked up with a confused expression as he recollected the event. “See, that’s what I thought too. And so the next day, I tried to return it. Did he tell you that?”

It was Crowley’s turn to look confused. “He said he _saw_ you again, invited you back,” He turned out his lip. “But he didn’t... mention you trying to _return_ anything.”

“I did, I tried to give it back. But he insisted I keep it. As a gift, he said.” Eric continued fidgeting as he spoke, this time with a small smile. “I’ve never gotten a gift before.”

Crowley’s expression may have soured just a tinge, but Eric did not notice. 

The hare continued in a whispering tone, speaking as if he were sharing forbidden secrets, “He’s just so _different_ from any other angel, and different from what I’ve been _told_ about angels. I suppose I just wanted to understand. I have so many questions.”

“Like?”

Eric squinted, caught in a fervent wonder, ”Like, how did you two befriend each other?”

“We just started talking,” Crowley shook his head and focused on the bottle of topcoat.

“And then you came to understand each other?”

“Yeah. Guess so,” Crowley answered curtly, not willing to get into it. He reached for the little bottle and slid it closer to him, intent on finishing the job himself so he wasn’t trapped there answering the other demon’s questions about his very personal and very private and very cherished friendship with Aziraphale.

“Is that all?”

“Well, no…” Crowley concentrated on painting the last of his own nail, moving very carefully while he did so. “We did things together. Went out to try the human’s cooking, and… played along with their silly conquests. Read their manuscripts and watched their performances. I did a few favors for him, he did a few favors for me. It just… happened, really. Over time.” When his nail was done, he delicately screwed the cap on the bottle of polish with his mostly-dry set of fingers. 

He was interrupted by Eric’s observation of, “You came to understand _humanity,_ together.”

Crowley’s face scrunched as he verbally fumbled, “I wouldn’t say we _came_ to understand it. We’re still learning about it, as it grows. Always something _new_ happening with these creatures. Like _VR_. Have you looked into that yet? It’s bonkers. And _nauseating,_ and _brilliant,_ how do they come up with this shite?”

“I think it’s _bonkers_ and _brilliant_ that you befriended an _angel.”_ Eric steered the conversation back on track without remorse, much to Crowley’s chagrin. _“Really_ befriended one, not just as a trick,” Eric added with a scoff.

The suggestion unsettled Crowley. He stopped searching for a way to move on from the discussion and instead tuned right into it. “No,” He growled lowly, his burning attention pinned on the hare again. “I wouldn’t _dare_ do something as stupid as that.”

Eric didn’t notice the threat underneath his words, now captivated by the pink spot of nail polish that had dried on the counter-- no longer seeing it as a means of distraction, but as an actual problem that he wanted removed from its surface. His nails weren’t doing a good job of it, and he didn’t want to ruin their image, so he gave up.

Turning an ignorant smile up at the redhead, Eric chuckled, “I'm rather glad that it was _you_ up there at that trial, and not him.” Seeing Crowley’s stone-faced expression, Eric’s smile abruptly faded, though he weakly attempted to share his relief that, “I-I’m glad I didn’t... hit him.”

“I’m glad too,” Crowley lifted his brows before purring darkly, _“For your sake.”_

Eric turned his gaze downward again, glaring at the granite counter top. “I’d felt such sadistic _delight_ to be chosen as the one to present the Hellfire,” he admitted with a small hunger to his words. “To have the chance to partake in the punishment of an angel, even if only as a minor role.” Eric’s tone changed to something softer. “I feel so guilty, thinking back on the memory now.”

Crowley was not convinced-- not concerning the last part of the demon’s confession, at least. He was _very_ convinced about the first part. He’d _seen_ it, firsthand. He felt _angry,_ thinking back on the memory.

Eric swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth. “I know you don’t like me, Crowley.” He lifted his head to stare into the demon’s shaded eyes with a renewed bravery. “But ever since then, you like me less than usual.” It had been impossible not to notice. “It that _because_ I nearly hit you, in Heaven?”

“No,” Crowley answered willingly. “It’s because you nearly hit _Aziraphale_ in Heaven.”

Eric furrowed his brow, correcting, “But I _didn’t_ nearly hit him-- it wasn’t technically _him.”_

“It was his _body.”_ Crowley clarified tightly.

Eric was thoroughly confused, and spread his hands as he asked, “So?”

 _“So?”_ Crowley hissed, deeply offended. “So--” But he didn’t have an explanation ready. Grasping for something, he spat, “You know what angels say about bodies!”

Eric gave him a look and waited to be informed.

“Sacred temples, or whatever.” Crowley waved his dried hand in the air, listing, “Meant to be treated with great care. Meant to be kept healthy, and clean. The point is; bodies are _special,_ Eric. They’re ‘gifts’ from the Almighty.”

That was one of the most prominent reasons why angels did not touch one another. They did nothing with their bodies, because they were not theirs. They were God’s. That was the idea, anyway. That was why they didn't eat or drink. That was why they put such value into looking _nice,_ even if they were not so nice underneath their physical appearance. The culture up there was that angels were not so much _individuals_ as they were _representatives_ , and that had always rubbed Crowley’s scales the wrong way.

“Oh.” Eric scanned the counter top with a distant expression that gradually hardened. “I didn’t know all that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” the redhead muttered with a tangled, suppressed knot of conflicting emotions that he didn’t want to acknowledge, glancing to Eric’s shirt collar. Crowley almost explained that that was why Aziraphale had been so angry at the poor state of Eric’s body, but he wisely decided against it.

It seemed that he might not have had to explain it, anyway. Eric was already putting a plethora of puzzle pieces together, recalling everything that had happened to him and his countless bodies. The hare’s expression deepened immensely. His eyes became filled with an explosion of thoughts as his glaze snapped back up to the serpent, demanding, “Is that all _true?”_

He’d been struck with a new layer of _hurt._ He never knew he was supposed to be special. He never knew he was meant to be treated better-- with _care._ He couldn’t help but wonder if Hastur and Ligur had _known_ those things, and had done everything they did anyway. The thought made him angry.

Crowley had not intended to light a stick of dynamite, so his tactic changed to avoidance again. “Well, _supposedly.”_ He began putting away the manicure supplies, perhaps hurrying just a smidge. “I don't know, Eric, I don’t have all the answers.” The little bottles clinked as they were packed into bins. The demon didn’t bother taking the time to organize them into color. “I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

The serpent flinched as Eric erupted, _“No,_ Crowley, you _aren’t.”_

Crowley sat frozen as Eric tore into him with his dagger-like words. “You’ve been in the light for thousands of years,” Eric hissed, shocked that Crowley would dare claim that he was in any kind of ‘dark.’

“You’ve basked in _far_ more than your fair share of light _._ Whether it be sunlight, or moonlight, or starlight, or lamplight-- even _God’s_ light!” Eric spat before gesturing to the front door. “This whole time, you’ve had an angel with you, teaching you things-- like that bodies are special-- and giving you answers _,_ and learning about humanity with you, while I’ve had _none_ of that.”

Eric slightly calmed from his outburst, glowering at the serpent. “You’re a very privileged demon. The only reason you have _him_ as a friend at all is because you were in the right place at the right time. And I wasn't.” Resentment soaked his miserable tone.

“I’ve been terribly envious of you ever since you were assigned to Eden.” The hare simmered with an uprooted hatred. He turned his focus to his painted nails as he continued, “I would sit down there and just _loathe_ you. I would listen to what the others had to say about you, and wish they had such ridiculous things to say about me. I thought, _‘lucky him_ , up on the surface. _Lucky him,_ driving around in one of those silly cars the humans built. _Lucky him_ , starting fantastic wars and reigns of terror about the Earth.’”

Crowley didn't correct him about the last part.

“I wanted to _be_ like you,” Eric exhaled as if there was something painful lodged in his chest. “I wanted to have what _you_ have. And when the Apocalypse didn’t happen, when you betrayed us-- when it was revealed that you had been a traitor _all along,_ I was envious of that too.” The hare grew an agonized smile as he recalled the day he’d realized, “You really broke free. You’d been free all along.”

There was a long silence after Eric’s admissions. Crowley sat across from him, not even daring to breathe as he took all that in. All that Crowley had learned was that Eric had a _terrific_ motivation for some potentially terrible acts. Envy was one of the deadliest sins. Just ask Cain and Abel.

Finally, Crowley broke the silence with a sarcastically chipper, “Well. I appreciate your honesty,” as if he were a therapist who had just been presented with a lifetime’s worth of problems. 

He slowly came to life from his statuesque pose with a slow crank of his head and a gesture of his hands. “While we’re on the topic of _opening up_ to each other, and being _brutally_ honest, and asking questions... let me ask _you_ some more.”

The serpent shifted in his seat, settling in for another round of honest brutality. “Be truthful with me, Eric. You have _nothing_ to lose. I can’t do a _damn_ thing against you,” he disclosed before asking with a defensive hiss, “Is this all just a trick?”

Eric met his gaze with a tired hatred. But he did not answer.

Crowley prompted further, challenging him to reveal his intentions. “An act of revenge?”

They stared at each other over the kitchen island for a long time. Eric appeared as if he wanted to say ‘yes,’ and would have delighted in it. But he eventually shook his head with an air of disappointment. “I’m not that clever, Crowley. I just want to have what you have.” 

He simply wanted a taste of the forbidden fruit. A taste of friendship, and freedom.

“No, perhaps not, but Hastur is.” Crowley countered, growling, “ _Hastur_ is that clever. And if he had any inkling that you felt that way, he’d pounce on it, and use it to serve him, because _he_ wants revenge on me, too.”

With a snarl, Crowley asked what he’d feared all along. “Did _he_ send you up here to take all this from me?”

Eric did not flinch or cower at the serpent’s rage. In fact, he smiled, and even began giggling with a demonic twinkle in his eye. “I quite enjoy watching you worry so much,” he confessed, with a half-hearted apology buried deeply beneath his grin. It was a guilty pleasure of his. He knew it was wrong, but couldn’t bring himself to stop being entertained by it.

 _“Answer me.”_ Crowley seethed.

“I don’t _have to!”_ Eric rejoiced, leaning back in his stool and grinning. “That’s the _wonderful_ thing! Like you said, there’s nothing you can do to me, thanks to that Holy Vow.”

Crowley’s aggressive facade cracked as desperation leaked through his clenched teeth. _“Eric.”_

Eric continued celebrating without care. “For the first time, I don’t have to fear anything at all.” He’d never felt so proud and triumphant. With a charismatic point, he purred, “But _you_ … you have _everything_ to fear.” His teeth shone beneath his spread lips. _“Especially me,_ and I rather like that.” There was no threat in his tone, only pure happiness.

The hare sat forward on his stool again, folding his arms upon the counter and leaning in Crowley’s direction as if he were infatuated with him. “Are you afraid that I’m going to hurt you, Crowley?” he asked, his tone sweet and almost flirtatious.

The serpent had enough of this. He answered with a straightforward, controlled, honest, “No.”

Eric’s smug little performance came to a halt, and his expression warped with confusion again.

“I don't give a _damn_ about what happens to me.” Crowley lifted his hand to peel his glasses off his face, revealing the entirety of his searing gaze. “If you wish to hurt me to get your revenge, then _do it.”_

Eric became captivated by his burning yellow eyes, growing nervous as Crowley demanded, _“Go ahead._ Get all the revenge you want that way.” The hare tried to make sense of his words with a slow expression.

Crowley matched the hare’s pose, sitting forward in his stool, folding his arms upon the surface and leaning across the island to stretch himself closer to the other demon, clearly without an ounce of fear for himself. Eric held his ground and did not shrink back, therefore they almost touched noses.

“But I swear to _God Almighty,_ If you _ever_ cause that angel _any_ kind of _pain,_ I will create a new Hell --a _worse_ one-- just for you.” Crowley vowed lowly. “And I promise that you will _never_ escape it.”

The hare drew back slightly, stammering weakly, “That contradicts our--”

“I don’t give a damn.” Crowley interrupted, craning forward to pursue Eric’s retreat. His glare pierced through the short distance between them like a bullet. “Consider this an addendum. And I don’t need a Holy Bible to seal it.”

Eric was terribly nervous again, but he was also bathed in wonder. True selflessness was difficult to comprehend when it was so widely believed to be a myth. Perhaps it wasn’t a myth after all. Perhaps it was simply a side-effect of friendship.

“I-I’m not going to hurt him, Crowley--”

 _“I don't believe you,”_ the serpent interrupted again. His palms pressed upon the counter top to hold up his weight as he leaned over the entire surface, still in pursuit of the slowly-retreating hare. His snarl grew more ravenous with every passing sentence. “I don't _trust_ you.” 

He threw up a hand in an angry gesture, causing Eric to flinch. “You could be off doing _God_ knows what to him right now, and I’d have no idea. He could be lyin’ in a ditch, or tied down in Hell, or locked up in Heaven-- and here _I_ am organizing _closets_ and giving _manicures_ to the man who very well could have _put_ him there!” By the end of it, the redhead was caught in a full spell of hysteria.

Eric blinked, having shrunk back into his stool and clutching its sides. He hesitantly lifted his own hand to point behind himself, “Actually, we’re just about to walk through the door.”


	10. Chapter 10

The door jostled briefly before opening, allowing an atmosphere of peace and reprieve to waft into the flat. “Hello?” Aziraphale’s call of greeting was paired with the rustle of shopping bags. “Anybody home?”

Crowley‘s tension immediately dispersed. With a large breath of relief, he snatched up his glasses, forced them back over his eyes, leapt away from the kitchen island, and abandoned the stunned Eric still sitting there. It took all of the self-control Crowley had not to teleport directly to Aziraphale’s side, but he was there in an instant all the same. He took some shopping bags from the angel’s wrists, who distractedly murmured, “Oh, thank you, dear.” The serpent’s act of service was mostly an excuse to justify his rushed presence and grazing touches.

The redhead cast a quick, concealed glance of worry over the bookkeeper as he took some of the man’s load. He was perfectly fine. Innocently oblivious, even. Good. Crowley calmed further. He then noticed the toys and trinkets that were in the bags, and spotted a sack of parrot seed. He glanced up to see an Eric walk into the flat and shut the door behind him, a blue and gold macaw perched on his shoulder.

“You got him a bloody _parrot?!”_ Crowley squawked.

“I certainly did.” Aziraphale sighed with terse optimism, clearly having had little choice in the matter.

“Her name is Sky! ‘Cause she’s blue, see?” Parrot-wielding Eric was beaming, but he paid Crowley no attention whatsoever, instead fully immersed in his parrot.

Purple Eric smiled humbly, still hovering in the kitchen. Crowley glanced back at him. Purple Eric didn’t hold his gaze for long, pocketing his painted hands and retreating to the bedroom with a solemn pace. Crowley watched him leave, feeling a glimmer of something similar to guilt in regards to their earlier argument. Stubbornly, he pushed the internal twinge of emotion away and followed Aziraphale to a table, where they both set the shopping bags down.

The serpent didn’t enjoy the clutter, and he didn’t enjoy the new animal, but his irritation was mostly a heavy cover-up for his immense relief. “Birds are one of the _messiest_ creatures God ever created,” he spat. “She’s gonna shit all over the place!” He’d just finished decorating it all nicely.

“I’m going to train her to go in a specific spot! I got a book about it and everything!” Parrot-wielding Eric claimed, ticking the bird’s golden chest. Sky cawed loudly like a raptor-- her version of a laugh.

“You’re never gonna get _any_ peace and quiet.” Crowley complained, following Aziraphale’s lead as they began unpacking.

“That’s alright! I don’t need any.” Eric assured him, transfixed on Sky as she bobbed her head and croaked excitedly, _‘Ello! Alright. Chuchuchuchu!’_

Crowley lamented to Aziraphale, “You couldn't have gotten him something easy, like a cat?”

“The cats didn't like him, and he wanted a bird.” Aziraphale murmured back, bundling the empty shopping bags and handing the ball of rubbish to Crowley, asking him to toss it. Crowley wasn't quite yet ready to step away from the angel’s side, and so he simply held the ball of shopping bags away and lit it in Hellflames within his palm. The rubbish was taken care of rather quickly.

Eric set the macaw down on the spine of the bar stool at the kitchen island. She was very interested in the manicure supplies. Eric finished putting them away, gently warning her against getting into them.

Aziraphale noticed the artifacts with intrigue, and asked the demons. “Did you all have a manicure party?” He turned a slightly amazed smile at the redhead, his eyes questioning.

Crowley made a face, correcting, “More of a tagging ceremony.”

Aziraphale glanced down. “And you were tagged as well, I see,” he smirked, extending his hand to ask for Crowley’s.

The demon gave it with far too much eagerness. “I was ambushed,” he testified, staring desperately at Aziraphale as the angel delicately examined his fingers. “There was nothin’ I could do to stop ‘em.” His words were meant as a clandestine _reminder._ But Aziraphale either did not notice, or did not choose to acknowledge it.

Instead, the bookkeeper turned and asked with sweet ignorance, “Did you do Crowley’s nails, Eric?”

“I did!” Eric called from the kitchen, packing the manicure supplies away in a cupboard as Sky wistfully watched him.

“Well, they’re very nice.” Aziraphale let Crowley’s hand go. It floated in the air as if in denial that the angel was no longer holding it.

“I can get the bottles out again if you want--”

 _“No._ ” Crowley snapped forcefully. There was no way in Heaven that he was going to allow the hare to handle Aziraphale’s hands.

Aziraphale flashed a smile at Eric’s dismayed expression. “That’s alright, Eric. It’s not really my thing.” Changing the subject, he inquired, “Do you need any help setting up her perches?"

Crowley realized, looking around at the items they’d purchased, “You didn’t get a cage?”

“No cage, just perches around the flat.” Aziraphale slowly answered behind his grinning teeth, which were pressed almost excruciatingly tightly together.

 _“Why?”_ Crowley whined.

“Eric _insisted.”_ Aziraphale emphasized tersely.

“That’s a bad idea.”

“I already _tried_ to talk him out of it, it’s no _use.”_ Aziraphale turned a less-than-appreciative look to the serpent. Crowley gave up. Aziraphale assured him with renewed pleasantness, “It should be fine, so long as he potty trains her quickly, and supervises her every second of the day, and never opens the windows again.” 

The angel gave him a _look_ and a tiny smile that hinted that this was a good thing because it kept the boy _occupied._

With a small gasp of realization, Crowley nodded. “Right!” A difficult pet that required tremendous attention every second of the day _was_ a _good_ thing for Eric. And therefore, a good thing for _them._ With a cherry pip, he called to the Eric in the kitchen, “Well, good luck with that!” and then made for the front door. “Come on, angel, let’s go.”

“One moment, dear.”

Crowley spun around to wait with a grimace.

The bookkeeper stepped towards the kitchen with a hesitance as if he feared he’d spoil the lovely outing they’d just had by revealing, “Eric, I… I’ve done my best not to worry, but something has been bothering me all day.” 

Eric stopped bustling about the kitchen to pay him his full attention.

“I must confess to you, I do not know how your duplicates factor into our arrangement.” The angel smiled, gesturing behind himself to give credit where it was due, “Crowley made a very good point to bring that up yesterday at the Chocolate Factory.”

He came to his point quickly. “I have to ask; do you know… are _they_ bound by our Vow?”

Eric began chuckling as if he’d just been told a delicious joke. That was not the expected reaction at all. Crowley stepped over stand beside the angel’s shoulder, barking, “What’s so funny?”

“An _angel,_ asking _me_ a question.” Eric answered between giggles. “About a _Holy_ thing, no less. Ha, that’s rich.”

Aziraphale added a dash of corrosive sweetness in his smile and tilted his head, allowing Eric to enjoy the rare irony, but still waiting for an answer.

Eric finally nodded. “Yeah, they all are.”

“Good.” Aziraphale nodded with a minuscule relief. But he wasn't done. His expression somehow slipped into something chilling, like a smiling parent who was revealing that they had known of their child’s misbehavior all along. “And the... _other_ one? Is _he_ bound by the Vow too?” Both Aziraphale and Crowley watched Eric’s reaction closely.

Eric looked at the blonde like he didn't know what he was talking about. “The other one?”

“You said you have a duplicate down in Hell. Covering for your absence.” Aziraphale reminded patiently.

“Oh, that one!” Eric grinned, humored by his own forgetfulness. “Yes, he was,” he nodded deeply. “He was bound by it too.” 

“Was?” Aziraphale repeated with a tilt of his head, curiously picking out the key word.

Eric was still nodding, but his enthusiasm depleted considerably. “He’s dead now.”

“Oh.” There was no emotion behind Aziraphale’s surprise. He fumbled to find the right thing to say, and only by way of formality. “I’m… sorry?”

Eric shrugged, “Happens all the time.” For the first time since he’d walked into the flat, he flicked a brief glance to Crowley, who was well aware of the truth behind that statement.

“When did he…?”

“This morning.” Eric answered, sticking his hands in his pockets and glancing down. “Before you came.”

“And he didn’t…?”

Eric shook his head, understanding what the bookkeeper was concerned about. “No, he didn’t tell anyone.” His gaze was still Hell-ward.

Aziraphale asked one last crucial question, staring upon him with crystalline blue eyes. “And… everything you just told us is the _entire_ truth?”

“Yes.” Eric realized he probably should look the man in the eye, and lifted his gaze to repeat, “Yes, it is.”

Aziraphale held his gaze for a few moments, and Eric became consumed by it, his shoulders slowly relaxing. Aziraphale’s interrogative stare, unlike Crowley’s, was not searing or painful. It did not reach any flame outwards or stab with needle-like intensity.

Instead, it was calm and deep like the ocean. Mysterious and inviting and soothing and terrifying all at once. Aziraphale’s eyes were gravitating, and Eric thought he’d fall right into them and sink into their endless depths. Only the wisest of demons would ever question if sharks swam beneath their surface.

The hare blinked and remembered to breathe as Aziraphale broke the trance with a soft, “Right.” The angel nodded, allowing a carefully laid, “Thank you, for your... answers.” Whether they were truthful or otherwise. The bookkeeper turned to invite his companion out. “Shall we go, now?” 

Crowley answered by peeling his own gaze off the hare and turning to lead the way to the door.

But they halted once more as Eric called, “Can I visit your shop again tomorrow? I never did get into that ‘Velveteen Rabbit’ book.”

Aziraphale turned to toss back a resigned, “You don't have to ask anymore, Eric. Remember?” with a small smile.

“Oh, right.” Eric chuckled with a shrug before waving merrily, “Well, see you tomorrow, then!”

* * *

“Do you believe him?” Aziraphale murmured, reaching forward to press the down arrow to the elevator. 

“About his Hell-bound duplicate kicking the bucket?” Crowley hovered closely beside him like a fawn unable to be separated from its mother’s side.

“About his Hell-bound duplicate being bound by the Vow.” Aziraphale sighed, plagued with worrying thoughts. The doors opened, allowing them to step inside.

“What am I, a demonic lie detector?” Crowley grumbled placidly.

As the elevator doors closed them into a space of privacy, Aziraphale quietly confided, “I find I don’t quite trust my own judgement as well as I used to.” His tone was shameful and somber, though he did his best to conceal it, for the sake of his own pride. “I suppose that corruptive _malware_ virus you were flirting about came true after all.” The elevator began carrying them downward.

“Score for me.” Crowley muttered smugly as a smirk trailed across his face. He then teased, “What happened to all that nonsense about him being ‘perfectly capable of telling the truth?’”

Aziraphale gave him a displeased side glance. “Well, I assume that you _do_ believe he was telling the truth,” he accused gently. “Or else you’d be having _fits_ right now.”

Crowley turned his smile to the angel, happy to hear that the angel knew him so well. Then, he admitted, “I don't know if he was lying or not. But I do know that if that copy _had_ told anyone, we wouldn’t be here discussing it.” The elevator dinged as it opened on the ground level.

Aziraphale nodded carefully. “I agree.” Crowley gestured for the angel to step out first, and they fell in matching paces beside each other on the way to the parked Bentley.

“Would Hastur kill him if he thought he was his only copy?” Aziraphale questioned.

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley answered, his hands in his pockets as he strode forth. “When Eric’s last remaining copy dies, he simply is put in line for a new corporation. When it’s granted to him, he starts accumulating duplicates again,” he explained.

Aziraphale stepped to the passenger side with Crowley following. “But it takes quite a while to get through that queue, doesn’t it?”

“When Hastur needs him again, he usually gives him an ‘Advance to Go, collect X amount of duplicates’ card. Rotten bunny bastard often skips the entire bloody line.” Crowley opened the door for the angel, but the blonde did not slip inside yet. Instead, the bookkeeper theorized, “So when Hastur goes to fetch him again, and sees he’s _not_ there, he’s going to know Eric’s up here.”

Crowley nodded, seeing no problem with that whatsoever.

 _“Then_ what?” Aziraphale fretted.

Crowley rested his arms over top of the door frame. _“Then,_ he comes up here searchin’ for him, eventually finds him,” Crowley craned his neck forward to whisper enticingly, _“And takes care of our entire problem.”_

Aziraphale didn’t look so convinced. Rather, he looked about to vomit.

“Eric can’t tell anybody _anything.”_ Crowley reminded the angel with a shake of his head. “So long as _we_ have no part in his demise, we’re golden. Released of our obligations!” He opened his palms and attested, “Hastur findin’ him is the _best_ thing that can happen for us.”

Aziraphale’s throat was dry, his skin paler than usual. “I don’t think it is, Crowley.”

“Of course it is!” Crowley scoffed, then amended, “Granted-- that’s only if the whole ‘I’m up here to take a perfectly innocent personal vacation while my Boss is totally unaware’ story is true. Which, as much as I’d _like_ it to be true, I _highly_ doubt.” He thought back to the conversation he’d just had with the hare in the kitchen.

The demon shrugged. “If it _is_ true, then we just have to wait out the inevitable.” He never thought he’d ever be hoping for _Hastur,_ of all beings, to come rescue them. Especially from _Eric,_ of all beings.

Aziraphale still did not get into the car. He was staring at the window of the open door, and at Crowley’s body resting against it. “How long do you think we have? Er, _would_ have, to wait?” His mind whirled with calculations and fears.

“Mmmmaybe a few weeks.” Crowley guessed plainly. “A couple months, tops. Hastur’s not a very patient demon. He’ll get plenty bored in that amount of time.”

Aziraphale looked incredibly nauseous, and closed his eyes to take in a weary breath. “Crowley, that cannot happen.”

“Yes it can.” Crowley began explaining, “All it takes is--”

“No, I mean… _really,_ it _cannot_ happen.” Aziraphale patted his hands in the air and bore a pleading gaze into the demon’s shaded eyes. “You _must_ understand that. I _literally_ cannot express how much that _cannot_ happen. _Please.”_

Crowley quirked a confused expression and opened his hands. “It’s not like _I’m_ gonna have anything to do with it.”

“I know, but…” The angel took another steadying breath, appearing dizzy. Crowley listened intensely, his face fraught with concern as Aziraphale urged, “If it comes to that, we _can’t_ let Hastur get a hold of Eric.”

Crowley’s concern was shattered. _“Wot?”_

“Please, just trust me.”

Crowley was shook. “Wha-- _Aziraphale!”_ He was asking for them to stick their necks out for the little twerp-- against a _Duke._ “That’s not part of our Vows!”

“I know, but--”

“We never said, ‘We shall not allow anything _else_ to bring him harm!’” he cried, removing one arm from the car door to gesture wildly. Then, he added with another bite of bitterness, “Well, _you_ didn’t, anyway.”

Aziraphale lowered his eyelids again. His voice remained calm. “Crowley, I’m not going to argue with you about this.”

“I’m not going to _agree_ to this!” The demon countered, removing himself from the open car door to bend at the knees in emphasis.

Aziraphale was about to argue, but then stopped himself. “I--! Fine.” He waved the man away, stepping into the opening between the door and the car. “We’ll discuss it later.”

“My answer is going to be the same _later_ as it is _now.”_ Crowley professed with a higher voice, working very hard to soften his astonished anger. He repeated the answer with a gentle, firm, drawn-out, _“No.”_

Aziraphale decided to argue after all. He turned back to the demon with one hand gripping the frame of the car door, hissing, “I _need_ you to agree to this!” There was a break of panic in his voice, and it stopped Crowley cold.

 _“...Why?”_ the demon asked, using the same innocent, tortured tone he’d used when he asked God the very same question. The question that made him fall.

“Because we can’t let Hastur get to Eric, Crowley.”

That wasn't an adequate answer. So Crowley whined again in urgency, desperate to understand his angel, _“Why not?_ It’ll solve all our problems!”

Aziraphale removed his hand from the door frame to ball it into a fist and cast a violent point to the pavement, snapping, “It _won’t!_ It will only make them _worse!”_

Crowley did not flinch at the angel’s rare burst of anger, but he did become silent. For a short while. As Aziraphale brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose and calm himself, the demon eased, “Look… it may not even happen. _My bets_ are on the scenario where Hastur is the one who sent him up here in the first place.”

“Yes, you’ve made that quite clear,” the angel sighed.

“I mean, he could be lying about the Hell-bound duplicate _entirely.”_ Crowley shrugged, trying to find _something_ to ease his friend. If the best-case-scenario (in his mind) caused the angel that much stress, then perhaps he now hoped for the worst case scenario (in his mind) instead.

“I suppose he could be.” Aziraphale exhaled tiredly, slipping into the car and closing the door behind him.

Crowley stood outside by himself for a moment, trying to pinpoint why Aziraphale was so upset about the possibility of Eric’s innocence and Hastur’s wrath. The demon looked up at the building they’d left as he began to circle around to the driver’s side of his car. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in a dark corner that he did not want to shed any light upon, he suspected that it was because Aziraphale had grown to _care_ about the hare.

He did very well not to dwell on that thought, nor dwell on the sinking sensation it brought to his heart.

The serpent slipped into the car and closed the driver’s side door behind him.

* * *

Aziraphale had relaxed a little in their short break from each other. Remorse recolored his face, and there was an apology tangled with an excuse in his words. “Well, needless to say, I am thoroughly knackered.” He kept his gaze either out the window or down at his hands in his lap. “I could go for a long, long nap.” Some kind of optimistic spirit showed itself in his tone again. “In fact, I will. As soon as possible.”

Crowley started the car, but did not put it into drive. He offered a forgiving suggestion to his friend, “How about you take one at my place? It’s closer.”

The angel couldn’t resist smiling in earnest. “Distance doesn’t matter in here.” He tossed an accusatory glance at him. _“Antarctica_ is five seconds away with _your_ foot on the pedal.”

Crowley smirked, but didn’t give up that easily. He proclaimed arrogantly, “I assure you, my king-sized FCI bed is much more comfortable than your Roche Vellham camel back.”

Aziraphale was obligated to defend his antique sofa. _“You_ fell asleep on it well enough.”

“I had the aid of angelic miracle.” Crowley protested.

Aziraphale argued with a shocked grin, “I did no such thing! You fell asleep all on your own.”

Crowley’s grin was triumphant despite having lost the battle. He purred a gentlemanly, “Really, angel. Would you like to stay over?”

Aziraphale met his gaze for a moment, appearing to ponder it. But he eventually decided with an indifferent reservation, “Perhaps some other time. I would like to return to my shop. It’s been an arduous day.”

It was a talent that Crowley had mastered to resist showing his disappointment around Aziraphale, especially when the disappointment was _in_ the bookkeeper. “Alright,” he conceded, guiding the car out of the lot. Only-- at a _crawling_ speed. Literally that of a Sister Slug’s.

Aziraphale noticed the uncharacteristically slow driving with a mixture of humor, irritation, and astonishment. Crowley acted as if he didn’t notice at all, asking, “Now, you’re sure? If I remember correctly, you quite enjoyed it last time.”

“I know what you’re doing, you wily snake.” Aziraphale tried his best to sound mad, despite wanting to do nothing but laugh.

“What?” Crowley asked with his best show of innocence.

“I’ll be napping _sooner_ if I just say _‘yes,’_ won’t I?” The blonde gave him a look, and he couldn’t contain the smile that crept out of his angered pout.

“Oh, most definitely.” Crowley nodded, teasing, “You did say ‘as soon as possible,’ didn’t you?”

“Very well, Crowley.”

Crowley grinned victoriously and argued no more, heading straight to his flat, and at his usual lightning quick speed. 

Aziraphale lifted one hand to hold onto the interior of the car, but it was late enough that there were hardly any other obstacles on the pathway there, and he remained relatively relaxed during the brief ride.“You do know I own a bed at the bookshop, don’t you?”

“You _do?”_

“Yes dear, upstairs. There’s a loft. Through that door that’s always closed by the storage closet.”

Crowley gawked at him between glances at the road. “How come _I_ didn’t know you had a bed?”

“I save it for emergencies.” Aziraphale smirked, borrowing his earlier excuse with the demonic phone trick.

“Emergency _naps?”_ Crowley cackled.

“Precisely.”


	11. Chapter 11

The light cast by the LED bulbs of the bathroom was different than the light cast by the fluorescent bulbs in Hell. In a way, the LED-sourced light was more harsh, but not in a bothersome way. More in a cleansing way; the way that harsh chemicals were required to disinfect a hospital of disease and gore, which was necessary to prevent the accumulation of additional disease and gore.

The light’s brightness was a formidable strength, never flickering or shorting, always stalwart and steady, almost pure white in color. The tile landscape of the bathroom glowed radiantly with the light’s reflection. The man standing in the bathroom did not glow so radiantly, nor did his mirror image. 

One might expect light of such intensity to be warm, but this kind was not, and so the man’s bare skin was caressed by a subtle coldness. Every scar upon his exposed body was illuminated under the light, no longer hiding beneath the shadows of his clothes. Therefore, the image in the mirror displayed a map of detriment. The man read of the journey that the markings told, retracing every hazardous step he’d taken through his lifetime as he stared at himself in the glass portrait hanging above the sink.

His own hand passed over his abdomen and up his chest, slowly feeling every knot, dip, ridge, and web of discolored and warped tissue on its way to his shoulder. His hand rested there for a moment before trailing down his opposite arm, tracing more ripples and burns.

_Bodies are special, Eric. Meant to be treated with great care._

His hand came to pass over the knuckles of his other, where his attention was drawn away from his mirror image and instead downward to his own nails, which had been painted jet black with thin gold patterns in the style of Art Deco. The patterns may as well have been tiny gold X’s, marking the only spot upon the map of his body where he’d ever been treated with great care.

Eric still recalled how Crowley had held his fingers during their redesign. Despite all of the serpent’s hisses and rattles, there had been a moment-- even if only one moment-- where Eric dared believe they’d achieved something akin to friendship.

* * *

Moonlight poured in through the tall windows of the flat only to wash over the concrete floor like spilt milk. The creamy light was confined in perfectly rectangular shapes that stretched across the barren room, broken by the dark shadows of the voluminous leaves of the houseplants. The plants tentatively stretched their leaves into the moonlight, enjoying its cool touch. They were careful not to stretch too obviously, in case their master spotted them stealing more than their fair share of light.

But Crowley was not watching the plants, nor their silhouettes cast across the floor. He was watching a portrait hanging on the wall in front of his table, where he sat in total darkness upon his over-sized throne. The portrait was of Mona Lisa, whom smiled temptingly at him, knowing of his desire, teasing him with it, and concealing it from him all at once.

Crowley had shed his skin-tight jacket, now only clad in a loose shirt that tiredly hung from his shoulders. Even while being submerged in the darkest shadows of the room, his yellow eyes glowed-- save for his slit pupils. He sat there, frozen in a predatory patience with one hand lifted to his lip, his knuckles pinning his budding snarl shut.

After a long while, the serpent stood up and stalked to the portrait, moving almost as carefully as his houseplants, in case the angel in the other room heard his mischievous rummaging. He cautiously opened the portrait and unlocked the safe behind it as if there was an atomic bomb lying within it.

With a _click_ that couldn’t be silenced, the safe opened, revealing the flask, the tongs, and the rubber arm-length gloves. The contents of the safe may have appeared comically innocuous to those who didn’t know any better. But inside that harmless-looking little bottle of Aziraphale’s tartan pattern lied a truly detrimental substance. The last of their Holy Water. 

The seemingly-innocent Holy Water sat there, mercilessly being stared at by luminescent, demonic eyes.

The bottle was spared from the searing spotlight by a small disturbance in the bedroom. The disturbance was that of the nearly undetectable kind-- not the turning of a man in a bed, nor the rustling of the fresh, rarely-used bed covers, nor even a shift in the respiratory rate of a pair of lungs. The disturbance was simply that of a pair of eyes opening.

Crowley detected it all the same, and so it was no surprise to him when he next heard his name murmured. The door had been left open so he could hear such minuscule disturbances of the angel sleeping in his bed, At least, the angel who he thought was sleeping in his bed.

The demon turned to glance at the corridor, then awkwardly closed the safe and the portrait with far more swiftness and slightly less silence than he had opened them. He came to the doorway of the bedroom with a certain reverence, stepping gently as if there was still a risk of disturbing the peace of the angel’s slumber.

If the angel was at all still sleeping, it was only by a fraction of what he had feigned before. He lied on his side, facing the door with one palm upturned and partially under the pillow. The edge of the silk covers were drawn up and settled around his middle, while the blue satin of his pyjamas were buttoned up around the rest of him. His wings were materialized, both extended toward the window behind him. The moonlight glowed upon his feathers as they rested across the large bed like two large, heavenly throw blankets. He lied as if he had fallen from a great height-- but in reality, he had simply collapsed with exhaustion.

Sprawled in a stilled serenity that could only be achieved if one were blissfully deceased, the bookkeeper murmured with a lazy gaze, “I do hope you haven’t been contemplating your stash of Holy Water for the past four hours and twenty-seven minutes.” Despite the scolding nature of his words, his voice was meditative and slow.

Crowley stood silently, guilty of being caught in the very act.

“That is why you wanted us to spend the night here, instead of at the bookshop.” Aziraphale continued quietly, already knowing the answer. “Isn’t it?”

Crowley remained silent. He would not lie to Aziraphale. But he was too ashamed to tell the truth. So he said nothing at all.

“Should I hold onto it for you?” the angel offered. 

Whether it was intended to be one or not, Crowley bristled slightly as he regarded the idea as a minor threat. “No, I-- I don’t want you to do that.” the demon urged with a small panic, shaking his head.

Aziraphale gave him a look.

Crowley struggled to make his case, hovering nervously at the doorway. “I’m not going to do anything with it, Aziraphale. I just…. I _need_ it. To stay calm.” Sheepishly, he buried his fists in his trouser pockets and rubbed the ball of his foot against the floor as if he were crushing a cigarette beneath it. “It’s... comforting. To know I have it. Just in case,” he murmured.

“You wouldn’t be able to use it, dear.”

“Perhaps not against him, no.” Not unless the hare harmed Aziraphale first. But Eric wasn't the only thing plaguing the serpent’s mind. Crowley focused on the floor. “But... if our secret ever got out...” He struggled to gather enough breath to speak every word. “If they ever came... to burn you... I could… use it against them.” 

The truth was that such a small amount of Holy Water wouldn't be able to do much. It would hardly be enough to destroy one demon, and certainly not enough to destroy the entirety of Hell. They both knew it. 

Crowley lifted his head and slightly changed subjects, announcing, “I made my own Vow today.”

The bookkeeper now moved, rolling his head away from the pillow to better look at the redhead, and with a curious expression. “Your own Vow?”

Crowley nodded, admitting without shame, “To God.”

Aziraphale was stunned. He slowly propped himself up on one elbow, causing one of his wings to slide against the other like a page about to be turned in a book. “Really?” 

“Yes.”

The angel knew that Crowley would not lie to him, especially about something of this divine nature. “What was it?”

Crowley stepped into the room, gazing upon the blonde with veneration. As he eased himself onto the edge of the bed beside the angel’s knees, he answered, “I Vowed that if Eric ever brings you _any_ kind of pain, then there is _nothing_ that can protect him from me.” 

That made something crumble within Aziraphale’s chest like indestructible stone turning to brittle shortbread. Crowley _defied_ God. Crowley had _no_ faith in God, and yet he had set aside his impious regards to make this Vow for him. There was no doubt in Aziraphale’s mind that the serpent had meant every word of his Holy promise. It touched him like nothing else. But it also brought a great sorrow to his heart.

With a gentle pain in his voice, the angel identified, “You believe that as long as you are by my side when something goes horribly wrong, you can save me.”

Crowley watched him in earnest, not needing to confirm that he believed that. He believed it with his whole soul.

“While that is very valiant of you…. it is also foolishly optimistic, Crowley.”

A vital organ in Crowley’s chest tightened. He often criticized the _angel_ for being too optimistic, and to hear such words from him now-- it hurt. “I _can,”_ he hissed gently. “I _will.”_

Aziraphale shook his head. He despised being the bearer of brutal realities, but in this case, he had to be. “You may not always be able to, my dear.”

He knew Crowley did not want to hear such things, especially from him, but he had to say them. “I think I would rather us be apart when the time comes for... something terrible,” he whispered. So they wouldn’t have to see each other be destroyed.

The angel had said _‘when.’_ Not _‘if.’_ That in itself destroyed Crowley. He turned his head to bear a grimace at the floor, then recovered by quickly transitioning subjects back onto Eric. 

“We’ve got a problem here, angel.” A problem that he had been taking measures to solve. “Eric may be bound to keep our secret, but he didn’t promise not to harm us. There is _nothing_ stopping him from that, if he ever feels so inclined.”

“Oh, I assure you,” Aziraphale hummed solemnly, “I am very well aware of that. So I suggest...” They slowly met each other’s gaze. “That you do your very _best_ not to provoke him.”

There was no reassurance in his voice. The suggestion rather sounded like an acceptance of defeat-- a confession that the balance was delicate, that his control was dangerously close to an illusion. “Can you at least _try_ to play nice to him?” Aziraphale pleaded with a tilt of his head.

Their hands were lying fairly close to each other on the bed. Crowley looked down to stare at them longingly, as if one of them would move to lay upon the other if he willed them to hard enough. 

Crowley was not very good at _acting_ friendly. He could do it (more-or-less convincingly) toward the humans, when he needed to. But he often did not need to, and being blunt usually served him better. And it was easier.

Then he realized the angel had used the word ‘play’ instead of ‘be.’ Lifting his head to squint at Aziraphale, he repeated, _“‘Play’_ nice?” He was intrigued by that choice of word, and it did not sit well in his mind. 

For a moment too small for time to document, his eyes widened as if he did not recognize the angel. “Is that what _you’re_ doing? Are _you ‘playing’_ nice?”

Aziraphale did not answer immediately, but he did not pull his gaze away either. “I am doing what I _have to_ to keep us safe,” he answered with quiet conviction. Then with a nod, he pointed out, “Clearly, you are willing to do the same.”

“Of course I am,” Crowley squinted, caught in a dreadful curiosity. ”But Aziraphale… are you _only_ being nice to him to keep us safe?”

Aziraphale broke their eye contact with a small swallow. Crowley’s jaw fell. The demon felt a wave of shock, relief, and perhaps even a flash of fond heat course through his body. There was a chance that Aziraphale didn’t care for the hare after all, and had been playing a trick on _him,_ and Crowley felt a sinister gratitude for it.

But then he also felt a prick of something else that he could not yet define.

“Not _‘only.’”_ Aziraphale grumbled, moving his hand-- but only to twiddle his own fingers together. “It's complicated.”

 _“I’d_ say.” Crowley agreed with a laugh, his expression cautiously alight.

Aziraphale sighed, opening his hands to yield, “You're right Crowley, he _is_ dangerous to us. I’m no fool. That's why we have to play a very _careful_ game. If we do not _please him,_ he can do some very terrible things to us.”

Crowley was fixated on the fact that Aziraphale had been dishonest with the hare, but the delight he found in it was starting to subside, revealing something else underneath. A dash of disappointment, perhaps. Or even a bit of anger. “I don’t see this as a game at all.”

“You know what I mean.” The angel’s gaze glared downward.

“How much of what you’ve done for him has been fake?” the serpent asked with a sinking expression.

Being fake was what angels were good at, after all. They were also rather talented at avoiding issues. “I’m tired, Crowley. I would like to go to sleep, now.” Aziraphale removed his elbow from beneath himself and settled onto his side once more.

Crowley remained by his side, persisting, “He said you gave that book to him. As a gift, when he tried to return it.” 

Eric prided that book. Perhaps even cherished it.

“I did.”

“Was _that_ real kindness?” Crowley inquired with another squint.

Aziraphale’s eyes glanced toward him, then focused upon the open door. Finally, he admitted, “Yes.”

Crowley didn’t allow him another pause. “And everything since then?”

“Since then, it has been mixed,” the angel sighed patiently.

Crowley’s tone was slightly more exasperated than curious at this point. He was quite torn between feeling proud of his conniving little angel, and feeling like an accomplice to something he hadn’t agreed to-- yet again. “How much of all this has been a _performance,_ Aziraphale?”

With a reluctant mumble of shame, the angel answered with Heavenly-trademarked vagueness, “More than you would think.”

Crowley finally let him be, pulling his scrutinous gaze away to also stare in the door’s direction. After a moment, he muttered, “Well, I may have been rather nasty to him, but at least I've been _honest_ with him.” Perhaps now it was _his_ turn to teach the bookkeeper a lesson on bullying. How funny was that?

Aziraphale turned his head to accuse in confusion, “Crowley. Are you... _standing up_ for him?” He was the one who was torn now, unsure whether or not to feel betrayed by or proud of his principled demon.

 _“No,”_ Crowley sneered, defending his bad reputation. He glanced at the angel derisively, then directed the bulk of his sour expression at the door. “Look, lying to him will do no good for anyone.”

“I beg to differ,” the bookkeeper mumbled quietly.

Crowley turned his gaze back upon him to plead half-heartedly, “Do not be dishonest with him, Aziraphale.”

“...It's a little late for that,” the angel miserably reminded.

“From now on, then,” Crowley clarified. “No more lies.” The demon rose to depart from the bed. But before he left the room, he stopped and turned around. “Aziraphale, he--” cutting himself off, he bit back his words and debated whether to say them at all.

With a curse under his breath, he let the words out even if they tasted bitter, “He looks up to you. No matter if he's innocent or not, whether he was sent by Hastur or not… he respects you. He is fascinated by you because you’re _different_ from other angels. And he’s right. You are. So don’t…” He waved one hand lazily in the air. “You know.”

Aziraphale watched him tiredly, and did not reply. Until, “I will be as honest as I can afford to be, Crowley.”  
  
The serpent nodded in acceptance. He said nothing more about it, and slipped out of the room to to fetch his mister and busy himself with his house plants. They shivered in fear at his uncharacteristic silence, but his silence was all for naught. Aziraphale did not get any truthful sleep that night.


	12. Chapter 12

The next day, Eric arrived at the bookshop at a later hour, but with a pep in his step. An empty book bag was slung across his shoulders, which bore a new overcoat and scarf, which he knew he’d have to take off before long because the bookshop was rather warm-- compared to the outdoor autumn weather.

It didn’t take him long to spot the angel at one of the over-cluttered tables in the East wing, wearing his spectacles and sorting through the clutter in an organizational manner that nobody but him understood. The demon took a moment to compose himself, straightening the empty book bag around his body. Then he moved towards the bookkeeper with a large grin. “Hello Aziraphale!”

The angel did not look up from his rummaging, and his voice was rather unenthused-- to say the least. “Hello, Eric.” He meticulously divided a stack of papers into three piles after glancing through the leaflets. “May I ask what took you so long to show up today?” The bookkeeper glanced up from his work to briefly peer at him over the rim of his glasses.

“I was teaching Sky some tricks.” Eric boasted, oblivious to the angel’s unusual demeanor. “It required three of us. She fluttered to whoever clicked the little clicker. She’d rather good at fluttering. Even with her primaries snipped.”

Aziraphale seemed to accept that reason, and returned his attention to his cluttered table.

“Though, ah… she still needs a bit of work on the whole… potty training endeavor.” Eric smiled weakly and then changed topics, bouncing on his heels as he rested his hands on the strap of his bag. “I was wondering what poets you might recommend. See, I was thinking about--”

“Didn’t you say you were going to read the Margery Williams collection?” Aziraphale interrupted in a gently warning tone, as if the hare was trying to steal away without finishing his supper.

“Yes, but, after that, I thought I could…”

“After _that,_ then you _can,”_ the angel informed him callously. His tone softened just a touch as he added with as glance, “I would suggest not overwhelming yourself.” With a lift of his brows, he turned back to his work. “Trust me, it’s _no_ fun.” While carrying a small stack of books to another table, he called, “Come find me when you’re finished with the Margery Williams books. You remember where to find them.”

It was fairly impossible for Eric not to notice the angel’s unusual demeanor at that point, and his purple nails picked at the canvas weave of his book bag while he watched Aziraphale bustle about the East wing.

He suspected that perhaps the bookkeeper was not having a very good morning. Perhaps he’d gotten in a fight-- _pardon--_ an ‘ _argument’_ with Crowley overnight. Perhaps there was something terribly wrong with the organization of his books that he had to solve as soon as possible. Whatever the case was, Eric forgave his inhospitality.

Any thought he might have had concerning asking Aziraphale about his lack of cheer was wiped from his mind when he noticed the smooth passing of black scales beneath another nearby pile of books. Eric hurried to the Margery Williams collection without further question.

* * *

He kept to his corner for a few hours and finished half of the author’s works before he was interrupted by his own instinct telling him he was being watched. He lowered his book to scan the floor around him, expecting to be frightened by the sudden sight of a large serpent. But he only spotted Aziraphale at the other end of the short aisle of bookcases. 

“I see you’ve made progress.” The bookkeeper’s hands were in his coat pockets, so he nodded to point out the stack of stories by Eric’s side. The demon glanced at the minor contributions he had made to the shop’s clutter. “Yes, um, I--”

“You will have to finish at home,” Aziraphale informed him with the same gentleness that a calm winter breeze carried when it grazed against the back of one’s neck. “Or, tomorrow.” With the tiniest and falsest of smiles, he explained, “It’s time to close shop.”

Eric glanced to the grandfather clock. He was certain that Aziraphale’s store hadn’t closed this early in the days prior. “Oh. Alright, yeah, I can… I’ll finish at home.” He smiled, closing the book he currently held and replacing it on his small pile.

Aziraphale flashed another plastic smile at him before reminding, “Do take care of them. Remember.”

“I will.” Eric bobbed his head as he began carefully placing the books in his satchel. Despite being perfectly allowed to check out the material, thanks to that Vow, the hare felt like he was stealing. Aziraphale’s watchful gaze surely agreed.

“Goodnight.”

On the way out the door, Eric hesitantly reciprocated the curt goodbye. “Goodnight.”

That night, the street felt far emptier than it usually did.

* * *

Things were relatively similar the next day. Eric came to the shop rather late, exchanged a short greeting with the busy bookkeeper, who hardly looked at him and who seemed to have little to say to him, and then the demon went off in a corner to read by himself. This time, the hare was interrupted yet again.

“Training Sssssky again?”

Eric flinched, bumping back against the shelf he was sitting up against. As he lowered the book into his lap, he was greeted by exactly what he expected to be greeted by. The bright yellow eyes of a large black snake. Eric caught his breath with a roll of his eyes, his heart beating like that of a mouse.

“Ssssorry.” The serpent’s forked tongue waved at him from between his scaled lips. “Didn’t mean to ssstartle you.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Eric muttered sarcastically.

“It’sssss three in the afternoon, where have you _been?”_ With a sway of its neck, the creature reared back to rest on its own coiled body, appearing to settle in to have a little chat with the man. “Yesssterday you were here at noon.”

“I had work today.” Eric explained, adjusting his hold on his book and pulling his gaze down to try to appear too busy reading to carry on a conversation.

“Oh, that’sss _right._ ” The serpent arched its neck like a shepherd’s staff, bobbing its head. “Your jobsssstarted.” 

Eric pinned his focus onto his book like a geek trying to avoid the attention of the school bully, but Crowley did not leave him in peace. 

“ _Well,”_ the snake asked expectantly. _“_ How did they go?”

Eric cautiously looked up to study the curious expression of the reptile. “...I think they went well,” he hesitated to answer. Then, he added, “I learned a lot.”

“Which onessss do you like bessst?” Crowley prompted.

Eric thought about that. “So far, the construction job. And the rubbish collecting. That’s actually quite fun.” He hadn’t noticed that he had lowered his book into his lap again. “It feels nice to build things and clean things for once. Instead of, well, the opposite.”

“And the… _cooking_ posssition?”

“I only washed dishes today.” Eric shrugged disappointedly.

“Oh _good,”_ the serpent nodded with a clear expression of relief. “Whatever you do, don’t burn down the essstablishment. Aziraphale rather likesss Vinny’s.”

“Oh, I’m much better at cooking now.” Eric professed, smiling briefly. “I use normal fire.”

“That’sss a good start.” The serpent’s orbs darted across the demon, but this time, it didn’t look like he was sizing up a meal.

“I’ve read two books on it already. _And_ all the safety pamphlets for the equipment at work,” the hare bragged.

“Even better.”

Eric lifted a finger. “And I’ll have you know, I made eggs _properly_ this morning.”

The serpent seemed to smirk. “Ssssplendid.”

After great debate, Eric decided to mention, “You know, I can show you, sometime. You _and_ Aziraphale. You both should… come over for dinner, maybe.” He tried to act like the idea was of no significance to him.

Crowley considered the offer, but then lazily hissed an indifferent, “Perhapssss.” He lowered his neck to the ground, unraveling from his own coil to crawl over the rug and depart from the conversation. “One day.”

“Why are you in your serpent form?” Eric asked as the last loops of the serpent’s body straightened out.

“I’m _working,”_ Crowley muttered over his shoulder-- not that he had one. “Sssstop distracting me.” The snake then slipped beneath a bookshelf.

“Distracting you? You’re the one who--!” Eric glared after the retreating serpent and then shook his head and returned to reading his book. “Whatever.” But he furrowed his brow as he contemplated what the demon could have possibly meant by ‘working.’

* * *

Before long, Eric was interrupted from reading yet again by the shouts of an angry customer in the East wing. “Mr. Fell, I have had it with your excuses!”

If Eric’s ear-like tufts of hair could have perked up any higher, they would have. He listened to the argument around the corner with a flare of intrigue.

“I have been trying to purchase this book from you for _months!_ I have offered _three times_ the amount its worth, and yet you _still_ refuse!”

Aziraphale’s voice was terse, yet gentle. “Mr. Jensen, I have told you many times, this book is not for sale.”

“You are going to take my money and I am going to take this book, and that’s the end of it. This is a shop! And a _piss poor_ shop, at that!”

Aziraphale’s voice remained calm. “If you are unsatisfied with my service, Mr. Jensen, you are more than welcome to leave.”

“I am. Right now, and I’m taking this book with me!”

“Then I will call the police and have you arrested for theft.”

“I paid for it!”

“It’s not for sale.”

Eric could hear the pure anger in the man’s voice as he snapped, “You know what, Mr. Fell? You can go f-!”

A third voice forced its way into the conversation at that point, though it didn’t speak any words. Instead, it merely breathed, and what a terrifying breath it was. The loud breath spread like fog on glass, then sizzled like bacon in a frying pan. _“HHH’SSSSSS!”_

Mr. Jensen’s rage vanished as he screamed like a child, and Eric burst into a grin as he listened to the commotion. “SNAKE!” The store burst into a panic, but Eric remained seated, turning to watch flashes of the scene pass by his aisle. Humans bolted for the door between throwing fearfully curious glances at the infested East wing. One juvenile pulled out their phone to try and snap a photo, but Mr. Fell disrupted the act, ushering all of the humans out with hurried reassurances.

Another hiss, a louder scream, and then the collective thumping of feet hurrying out of the shop. Eric snickered as he heard the sound of the doors not only close but also _lock,_ trapping in a sense of peace within the shop.

Then he heard a sigh from the bookkeeper. “That should keep Mr. Jensen away for a few weeks.”

“Monthssss,” Crowley’s voice predicted proudly.

Eric quietly sent a few giggles into the pages of his book.

* * *

Aziraphale was closing the barely-used register when Eric finished the Margery Williams collection. The hare eagerly informed him, “I finished!” then realized that he might not have chosen the best moment, as Aziraphale was currently counting currency.

But the _clink, clink_ of pennies and pence did not cease, and Aziraphale did not look up as he continued his work, murmuring, “How did you like her stories?”

“I liked them,” Eric nodded. “I liked ‘The Good Friends.’ And ‘The Skin Horse.’ And of course, ‘The Velveteen Rabbit.’”

“I thought you might.”

Eric made a face and shook his head. “But the Fairy wasn't really the one who turned the rabbit real, was it?” Eric shifted his feet. “It was the boy. Because he _believed_ in his rabbit. And, as the Fairy said, _loved_ him.”

Aziraphale looked up, then glanced over the demon in a slightly more curious way than at all before that day. “That’s right.” He was no longer counting his coins, but he still returned his distracted gaze to them as he remarked, “The power of belief can be quite a miraculous thing.”

Eric’s smile twitched, but he took a breath and risked asking, “And love?”

Aziraphale seemed to hesitate. “Yes. And love.”

“I was wondering,” Eric shifted his stance again, clutching the strap of his book bag. “Is love similar to friendship?”

Aziraphale felt the texture of the coins in his hand, struggling to find an accurate answer. “...Sort of.” He placed his hand on the surface of the desk and gently released the coins to lie upon it in a neat little pile. “Love is a very complicated thing.” He shook his head, giving the man his full, honest attention for the first time that day. “I don’t think I can even begin to describe it. At least, not in a way that you would easily understand.”

“Is it like,” Eric offered, “the next _level_ of friendship?”

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered as if he were scanning the empty shop to find where he’d misplaced his answer. Perhaps it was buried under one of his piles of books and papers. Or, underneath one of the shelves or tables. 

“Sometimes,” he supposed. “Yes.” He quickly returned to counting the pounds.

“And that’s why some people are referred to as ‘lovers’ instead of ‘friends.’” Eric guessed. “Because they achieved that next level of a relationship?”

The conversation was quickly headed in a direction Aziraphale did not want it to go, but he did his best to steer it back on course. “Well, only in _some_ relationships. Romantic ones. Where two people…ah, are _together._ Romantically.”

“Romantic love.” Eric identified slowly, as if he were jotting down the term in his mental notes.

“Yes. But there are other types of love.” Aziraphale explained. “There’s… platonic love. And--”

“What’s that kind?”

The bookkeeper spoke carefully, as if he were moving upon ice. “Love between friends. Where… there isn’t necessarily _romance_ involved.”

Eric nodded slowly, but his expression narrowed as he became confused. 

Aziraphale moved on. “There’s also _parental_ love. The love between a parent and a child.”

The demon appeared less confused. “Oh that’s right! I’d forgotten about... that one.” Then he appeared quite sad.

The angel immediately understood why. He tried to hurry past the reminder of the hare’s damnation, offering a weak reassurance, “Don’t worry about understanding love right now, Eric. Some people go their whole lives and never do.” The bookkeeper took note of his earnings and then tucked the money into an envelope.

“Why is that?”

Folding the envelope flap and reaching for the wax stamp, Aziraphale mused, “Well, I don’t think it was _meant_ to be _too_ easily comprehended.” He made the seal and filed away the envelope before lifting his head to look upon Eric during a break in his busywork. “But sometimes when things... take a lot of patience, and work... then they are are worth all the trouble.”

Eric soaked in his advice like a sponge, nodding thoughtfully and reiterating, “Love is worth all the difficulty it takes to understand it.”

“Yes,” the angel murmured quietly. “It is.” After a moment, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Now, you wanted to become familiar with more poets?”

Eric broke into a smile. “Yes.”

“I have a stack here for you to take, to start with.” Aziraphale led the way over to the stash. “And when you’re done with all that, I have another pile upstairs, in the North wing.” He sighed and placed his hands into his trouser pockets, watching Eric sift through the collection and then carefully place some items into his book bag. “I would like for those ones to stay in the shop, if possible.”

Eric glanced to the second floor, then at the bookkeeper. “Why?”

“Well, they’re more precious, and I would also ask that you wear gloves when handling them.” Aziraphale tipped his head, adding tersely, “If that’s not too much to ask.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my hands are clean! I wash them every day now.” Eric grinned happily, flashing both sides of his hands to prove it.

Aziraphale remained patient. “That’s very good of you, but it’s the natural oils in your skin that I’m most concerned about. Everyone has them, and you can’t really wash those away.” He pointed upstairs. “But the books are very sensitive to them. Because of their material, and age.”

“Oh. Alright.” Eric accepted the explanation and finished packing his book bag, muttering as he checked how each item had settled in the canvas, “I said I’d treat all books with care, and I’m going to do it.” He threw a grin up at the bookkeeper, complimenting, “You know how books should be treated best.”

Aziraphale appreciated the accreditation, and nodded with a short-lived smile to express gratitude for the demon’s adherence.

Eric’s smile brightened as he straightened up and secured his bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”

The bookkeeper did not walk him out, only standing with his hands deeply in his pockets, muttering tiredly, “See you tomorrow,” as he watched the hare leave through his peripheral vision. The door closed, and the angel was left alone in his shop, standing in silent contemplation.

But he was not alone. He was never alone.

Aziraphale looked toward Heaven --but actually, not at all. His attention was given only to the creature coiled around the forked support beam above him. Scales shifted against each other as the serpent uncoiled enough to lower his head down toward the bookkeeper. His tail and body remained snugly wound around the branches of the beam as he peered at the man with an unblinking infatuation.

They gazed at each other with telepathic understanding, until the serpent asked, “Were you more honessst with him?”

“I was.”

“That’ssss good,” the serpent reassured.

Aziraphale made a face as if he wasn't so sure. He turned the question around without delay. “Were you more kind to him?”

“A little.” Crowley reluctantly admitted, his neck weaving in the open air.

“Good,” the blonde echoed half-heartedly. They gazed at each other for a few moments longer before the angel lifted one arm to invite the serpent down.


	13. Chapter 13

The following day, the Soho street was extra crowded than before. There was an array of news vehicles at the corner where Aziraphale’s shop lay, and as Eric made his way politely through the crowd, he spotted the angel at the center of attention, speaking with multiple fellows who extended microphones at him like popsicles. “Well, I don’t know what happened, honestly. One day everything was perfectly lovely, and next thing I know, there’s a snake living in my shop.”

Eric lifted his arm to energetically wave above the heads of the television crew.

Aziraphale did not wave back, only giving him an odd look. “I-- I suspect it snuck in through the floorboards. It’s quite an old building, there’s no telling what could be lurking under there.”

One of the reporters questioned, “Mr. Fell, do you believe there’s more than one?”

“There very well could be. It could have a whole  _ nest  _ tucked away in there. There could be dozens of little snakes crawling all over. I’m just glad no one was hurt. There’s no telling what kind of  _ venom  _ the creature might have in its great, big  _ fangs.” _

Clearly the bookkeeper was far too busy with whatever he was doing to say ‘hello,' so Eric moved on, shrugging his way through the crowd to head for the shop’s front doors-- which nobody was anywhere near. 

“What are some steps you’ve made to handle this infestation?” another reporter inquired.

Aziraphale struggled to remain focused. “Well, I--I am in contact with an extermination team. They said it could take quite a while to catch the little buggers, as they’re very clever indeed.” His eyes glanced to Eric as the demon moved through the crowd.

“How will this affect your business?”

“Oh, not much, really. This is more of a hobby than a business,” the bookkeeper laughed nervously, then spotted someone else moving through the crowd and relaxed. He nodded to the reporter to politely explain, “I’m retired.”

There was a red sign secured to the doors of the shop. Eric squinted at it from afar, curious to read what it said. But he was swiftly yanked aside by a fellow demon.  _ “Don’t,” _ Crowley muttered through closed teeth, pulling the hare along with him as they trudged away from the crowd, and away from the front doors. “You’re going to ruin everything, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What? Stop!” Eric stumbled along before ripping his arm free and glancing back with confusion. “What’s going on? What’s Aziraphale talking to those people for?”

“Bad publicity.” Crowley answered, gesturing to the building. “You don’t want to  _ ruin it _ by walking straight into the condemned shop, now do you?”

“Condemned?” Eric repeated with a worrisome wince. “Why is it condemned?”

“Pest control,” Crowley drawled. Then, off the perplexed expression that Eric gave him, he rolled his head and elaborated, “It’s not  _ really  _ condemned. It’s a  _ scam, _ Eric. Come on, get with the program.”

Now Eric looked shocked. “A-Aziraphale is--??”

“Oh, yes. It was all his idea, really. Quite brilliant, if you ask me,” Crowley nodded.

The hare gave the bookshop one last sorrowful glance. “But, how am I going to read, now?”

“Well,  _ you  _ can still come in, just not the humans.” Crowley assured him, gesturing to the crowd of news folk surrounding the bookkeeper. “ _ They’re _ the ones who are the pests, here.”

“Then why did you pull me away from the door?”

“You’ve got to use the  _ back door _ from now on,” the redhead emphasized, turning to continue leading the way alongside the building. “Think of it as a speakeasy for otherworldly  _ bookworms.” _

Eric hesitantly followed the other demon. “But there  _ isn’t  _ a back door.”

“Well, call it a  _ secret entrance, _ then,” the redhead called over his shoulder and turned down an alley.

This was when Eric stopped, massaging his hands together and feeling a heaviness in his gut. He knew, _ logically, _ that he had no reason to fear the possibility of a demonic ambush lying in wait for him down that alley. Crowley couldn’t bring him harm. Still, he worried. His naivety had gotten him into trouble before, and he would have felt much better about all this if Aziraphale had been with them.

Eric realized what a silly thing that was, for him to wish for the protective presence of an angel. A _stupid_ thought, indeed. He cautiously crept down the alley, spotting the last of a serpent’s tail disappear through a hole in the brick wall behind a rubbish bin. With a deep breath and a glance toward the street, Eric followed the reptile through the hole.

* * *

With soft paws shuffling along the concrete ground, he stepped through the broken cinder blocks and squeezed into the crevice that had eroded through the brick foundation of the building. His ears flattened against his back and his hind feet clumsily pedaled to keep up with his smaller front paws.

After a short while of poorly navigating through the passageway on his own, the rabbit whispered, _ “Crowley?”  _ His little body quaked with his quick breaths and even quicker heartbeats while his large eyes blinked in the darkness.

“Yessss?” the serpent’s voice echoed through the tiny cavern, sending a small chill down the rabbit’s back.

“I can’t see a b-bloody _ thing.” _

“Then ssssstick clossse.” 

Scales brushed against his fur, and Eric squeaked a shrill  _ “Eeek!” _ of surprise that echoed through the cement walls. If he hadn’t been confined by the small tunnel, he may have leapt all the way to the rooftop in pure fright.

“Calm down, it’sss alright,” Crowley’s voice grumbled. “It’sss not far.”

The hare took a few hundred calming breaths in the time that a human would have taken one. He continued crawling forward, blindly pressing close to the shifting scales beside him for guidance, and trying to be mindful of his claws with each step.

Light finally bled into the crawlspace as Crowley’s head pushed up a floorboard, shifting a few papers that lie atop it. The rabbit slipped under the archway of his neck and hopped up into the bookshop. Eric released a sharp sigh of relief and shook the dust from his fur. His paws slid against the floor from the force of the vigorous shaking, and once he was finished, he bounded toward the spiral staircase while the lengthy serpent slid out from beneath the floorboard.

* * *

The bookshop was normally a quiet and calm place, but without its keeper, it slumbered in a dead silence, awaiting his life-bringing return. The books, artifacts, papers, and scrolls sat lifeless on the shelves and tables, desiring nothing more than to be touched, opened, read, or even only looked upon by Aziraphale’s eyes once again. When the angel was in his shop, he nearly always gave  _ something _ his devoted attention. 

But the relics of knowledge and art would have to make do with the two demons’ company, for now.

Eric found the pre-laid pile of poetry easily enough. It towered in the North wing as Aziraphale had told him. Old manuscripts were sorted neatly, nicely, and with special coverings around the binding to preserve the aged material. An entire table had been cleared off for the collection, and a box of nitrile gloves awaited beside the antiques as well. Eric hoisted his book bag off his shoulder, setting it gently on the floor before unwinding his scarf from his collar.

“Is... Aziraphale okay?” he asked, glancing behind him as Crowley wandered over from the stairs. The redhead would certainly know.

There was no ounce of alarm in Crowley’s lanky form. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been a bit… different, the past couple of days,” Eric explained, hanging his discarded scarf upon the chair.

Crowley seemed to debate what to say in response, his expression changing with a partially open mouth. “He’s just a little...  _ stressed,  _ is all.”

“Because of me?” Eric asked.

Again, Crowley struggled. “Well, I wouldn’t say  _ that.” _ He shrugged and shook his head. “Perhaps more accurately, because of the Holy Vow in  _ general.” _

“Oh.” Eric glanced away, then began unbuttoning his autumn coat.

“It’s a lot of work-- on  _ our _ part, you know.” Crowley leaned against a bookshelf, slipping his hands in his pockets.

“Yes… I suppose so.” Eric was only partially listening as he hung his coat on the chair. The other part of him was thinking.

“And besides, he can get in these...  _ moods, _ every so often,” Crowley expressed. “It’s normal. Not everyone can be a blinding ball of sunshine  _ everyday. _ It gets exhausting.” He lifted his eyebrows and glanced over to the railing that circled the open space in the center of the shop. “At least, I imagine it does.”

“That makes sense.” Eric sat at the desk and pulled out two nitrile gloves in preparation to handle the precious manuscripts of poets with strange names such as Virgil, Homer, Laozi, and Rumi, among others.

“Just be patient with him.” Crowley assured, speaking from centuries of experience. “He’ll come out of it.”

Eric thought about that piece of advice, and then turned to flash a bursting grin at Crowley, his hopes renewed. “Okay. I can be patient.” 

Crowley didn’t exactly understand what was so  _ exciting  _ about being patient, but he nodded. Over the course of Earth's lifetime, he had learned that it was a necessary and worthwhile virtue-- especially when it came to being patient with Aziraphale.

His shaded gaze wandered over Eric’s choice of clothing for today. “You’re wearing the brocade,” he commented with approval.

Eric looked down at the violet jacquard fabric of his top. It matched his nails very nicely, he thought. It felt nice to wear more color. “Yeah, I-- I remember you liked this shirt.” He glanced back up at the serpent and smirked. “At the store, you said it made me look like a prince.”

“W-” Crowley began, stuttering to find the correct clarification. “I said it made you look,  _ like, Prince, _ ” he nodded. He was met with a blank expression from the hare, so he spat, “The  _ singer. _ You know. ‘Purple Rain.’ ‘Little Red Corvette,’ ‘Sign O’ the Times.’”

Eric gave him a rather sassy look, convinced he was muttering gibberish.

“Oh, Heavens,” Crowley realized. “You don’t know who Prince is, do you?” That was a travesty. Crowley unleashed a hopeless sigh and slunk away to fetch Aziraphale’s gramophone. “Come on, Eric. Those dusty old books will have to wait.”

* * *

_ ‘How can you just leave me standing?’ _

_ ‘Alone in a world that's so cold.’ _

The bookshop was no longer quiet. Instead, it had turned into a concert hall. 

“Good _ Lord.” _ Aziraphale gasped, hurrying to close the front door behind him before snapping his fingers to sound-proof the walls and windows, which were now almost shaking with the beat of 1980’s rock. 

_ ‘Maybe I'm just too demanding.’ _

_ ‘Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold.’ _

He winced through the racket, moving to the open space in the center of his shop and glancing up towards the second floor while calling,  _ “Crowley?” _

The redhead was leaning against the railing, shoulders swaying and head bobbing as he echoed Prince’s voice, holding a freshly-opened bottle of whiskey. He turned at Aziraphale’s call and grinned beneath his glinting glasses as if nothing was amiss in the shop at all.  _ “Hullo, _ angel!”

“What are you two  _ doing _ up there?” the angel demanded crossly.

“What’s it  _ sound _ like we’re doing?” the serpent swaggered.

Aziraphale threw up a disappointed, “He’s supposed to be  _ reading _ ancient  _ poetry!” _

“He’s  _ listening _ to  _ modern _ poetry instead!” Crowley declared.

Aziraphale sighed. “Alright, just-- will you  _ please _ turn it down? The whole neighborhood is going to think I’m having a grand old  _ party  _ in here.” An internal celebration of the shop’s condemnation would certainly raise a few red flags in the local community.

“We  _ ARE  _ having a grand old party!” Crowley cried, lifting his arms as various parts of his body continued to be tugged along to the music. The bottle of alcohol sloshed in his tipsy hold. “This is the  _ glorious  _ day where Eric discovers _ good music!” _

“It is  _ quite _ good!” Eric agreed as he came to the railing beside the redhead, leaning over it to grin down at the angel. Much to Aziraphale’s immense relief, the hare was not holding any vessel of spirited beverage.

The bookkeeper gave up and marched out of sight, muttering something about trusting a pair of demons to run amok in his shop without supervision-- and that he  _ knew _ he should have put a blessed lock on the liquor cabinet. The two demons continued to wail overhead as Eric slowly figured out how to properly bob his head in time with the beat.

_ ‘This is what it sounds like,’ _

_ ‘When doves cry!’ _

With a spin of Crowley’s finger, the record (which was originally a Mozart piece) quieted slightly, then began playing another Prince song, and then a Michael Jackson tune, and then an AC/DC hit, before finally landing on the beloved  _ ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ _

_ ‘Too late, my time has come.’ _

_ ‘Sent shivers down my spine.’ _

_ ‘Body’s aching all the time.’ _

“This is the  _ pinnacle  _ of modern rock bands.” Crowley claimed above the piano notes, leaning heavily against the handrail.

“What is this group?” Eric asked eagerly.

_ ‘Mama, ooh.’ _

_ ‘I don't wanna die’ _

_ ‘I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all’ _

“Queeeeeeen!” Crowley proudly answered with a stretched grin.

“Oh.” Eric furrowed his brow, then asked above the guitar solo. “Are they in the same royal family as Prince?”

Crowley burst out laughing.

Eric didn’t see what was so funny about his innocent question, but he quickly realized that it was not a sinister laugh, nor a false one. It was a true, honest laugh, and the hare realized he’s inadvertently made a joke that the serpent found genuine humor in.

* * *

Eric was eventually laughing as well, due to the fact that Crowley quickly became a wild mess, blaring every memorized word of the Rhapsody in a drunken rapture. He equipped all manner of air guitars and drums (which actually played notes) and tapped into a personal chorus of backup voices throughout the piece, recreating a grand show to go along with the wacky song. 

“So you think you can love me,” the man arched himself backwards to sing to the sky, “and leave me to diiiii-IIII-iiiee,  _ ohhhhh _ baybayyyyy! Can’t do this to me, baybayyyy!”

By the end of it, Eric was breathlessly giggling on the floor while Crowley lay in a sofa chair tiredly serenading the last few dramatic lines with subtle vibrato. “Nothing really matters… nothing really matters… to meeee.” His voice was actually quite beautiful, when he wanted it to be. Or, more accurately, when he was too tipsy to filter what came out of his mouth.  By that time, Aziraphale had crept out of the backroom, ascended the spiral staircase, and stopped at the top to look upon the fallen demons in the Upper East Wing. The bookkeeper appeared very fatigued, but not from his climb. He took a second to sigh to himself before stepping over to the drowsy redhead.

As he joined the two of them, he noticed that they were directly across from the wing where-- only a few days ago-- Crowley had leapt up to trap the hare against a bookshelf and interrogate him about his initial presence here. The occasion seemed like it was months ago, yet it hadn’t been very long ago at all. For a moment, he allowed himself to marvel at how far they’d come since then, and when he turned to look upon the two rascals again, he didn’t look as tired anymore.

“Any way the wind blows....” Crowley’s fingers twiddled as he lay slumped on the sofa chair, every motion perfectly matching the last remaining piano notes. There was a large probability that the demon was now entirely the source of the music, and not the miraculous record player. 

The last note played with a press of the serpent’s painted pinky in the open air. As it faded into merciful silence, Aziraphale reached down to gently take the empty bottle of whiskey from him. “I think you’ve had enough of that.” 

Crowley did not argue or protest, only letting his hand fall to rest. There was no telling whether his eyes were open or closed behind his sunnies, but both Eric and Aziraphale were willing to bet that either way, he was already halfway into a heavy nap after exerting all of that rambunctious energy.

“Well, I hope that was very educational for you.” Aziraphale murmured with a quarter glance in Eric’s direction. “We’ll let you get to your poetry now. Don’t forget the gloves.”

“I won’t.” Eric grinned, unleashing a few lingering giggles as he watched the pair.

“Come on. On your feet.” Aziraphale beckoned, gazing down at the drowsy drunkard as if he were envious of the redheaded bastard.

“I  _ am _ on my feet,” the redheaded bastard whined in protest.

“No you’re not. Not yet.” Aziraphale shook his head and then reached down to grab hold of him from beneath his arms. He pulled Crowley up and arranged him to have one limp arm slung around his shoulders. Aziraphale straightened up like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade. “There you are.” As they made their way to the stairs, Crowley’s feet shifted between stumbling and dragging along the hard wood floors.

Eric watched them with a tilted head as if he were observing a puzzle. A puzzle that should definitely  _ not _ be capable of fitting together, yet somehow, did. Before they got too far, he called, “Crowley?”

“Hmm?” the serpent leaned away from his support structure to swivel himself around to find the hare. Aziraphale kept a hold on his wrist, pinning the man’s arm down across his shoulders so he wouldn’t slip to the floor.

“Will you teach me how to drive?” Eric asked hopefully.

With that one innocent question, Crowley was reminded of the true nature of their relationship. He was reminded of the Vow, and reminded that the bond between them was not one of friendship, but one of slavery. He was reminded that the only reason he was doing anything at all with the lesser demon was because Eric would bring about his-- and Aziraphale’s-- destruction if he didn’t. It thoroughly depressed him.

“Uhhh….” he struggled to decide what to say.

“Not today, Eric.” Aziraphale spoke for him. “Crowley is clearly in no state to operate heavy machinery.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Eric suggested.

Crowley still did not jump at the idea, and had grown rather quiet and saggy. Somehow, he’d caught himself in the act of believing that they could be honest friends, yet again. What a foolish thing to do.

“We’ll see,” Aziraphale answered, knowing where Crowley’s mind had wandered. As some kind of pathetic way to cheer Eric up (paired with a hidden passive aggressive undertone) the angel reminded the hare with a sad smile, “He  _ has to, _ eventually.”

Eric saw the sadness in the bookkeeper’s smile, then noticed something akin to it in Crowley’s sudden silence. That changed something within the hare. “Oh, it’s alright,” he pardoned. He didn’t need to learn tomorrow, or even the next day. Or the next. He’d learn when they  _ wanted _ to teach him. Not because they  _ had to. _ All of this was conveyed in the humble smile that passed across his face and he assured, “I can be patient.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered to the demon before holding steady. Then, his brows dipped in brief curiosity. After a slow nod, he continued dragging the drunken redhead towards the stairs with one arm around his waist to keep him close.

Eric watched them for as long as they were in his line of sight, perplexed by the way that their bodies fit beside each other.

* * *

Eric remained upstairs well into the night, reading the entire collection of ancient poetry that Aziraphale had laid out for him, and all while wearing proper gloves. He was not interrupted, and he was not informed of any ‘closing time’ nor asked to leave. He figured that was because the shop was closed to begin with.

Or, perhaps Aziraphale simply did not wish for him to leave yet.

He was hesitant to believe in that reason. He was also uncertain if the bookkeeper was even in the shop. There was no sign of him on the second floor, and no sign of him downstairs-- at least from what he could survey from the balcony.

He donned his coat, scarf, and book bag before jogging down the spiral staircase, where he spotted Aziraphale sitting in the corner of his couch with a book poised in one hand and his spectacles perched upon his nose. 

“Oh, there you are!” Eric beamed, approaching the angel with his usual enthusiasm. But as he came closer and more of the scene came into view, he halted in alarm. It was revealed that Crowley was lying upon the couch as well-- hidden under a blanket with his head resting upon Aziraphale’s lap. The demon’s glasses were missing, and his uncovered eyelids were closed. Eric had never seen him appear more human, nor appear in such a tranquil peace. He was nearly unrecognizable.

Eric was stunned. He’d never seen a demon sleep before. That was because demons did not sleep. Hell was most definitely not a place to even fathom doing so. But here, on Earth, in this  _ angel’s  _ bookshop (of all places) Crowley did so with such serenity. The entire thing was so foreign to Eric, it was almost frightening.

The hare had frozen in place as if he’d realized he’d almost stumbled far too close to a predator’s lair. Aziraphale’s voice seemed to agree. There was a minor  _ hint  _ of a warning underneath his calm tone. “What do you need, Eric?” 

What he did  _ not _ need was to come any closer, and they both were aware of it.

“I… I was just going to say goodbye.” Eric explained, already in the process of taking a step back. “I finished.”

Aziraphale had not taken his eyes off the text of his book, yet Eric was not convinced that any of the angel’s true attention was upon it. The bookkeeper nodded as he read quietly to himself, murmuring, “Goodbye, then.”

The hare felt better as he placed some distance between himself and the couch, but his eyes became fixed to the sight of the angel’s hand resting in the flames of Crowley’s hair. His ringed finger lay atop the man’s tattoo on his temple.  An angel’s touch upon one’s head was a dangerous thing. Every demon knew that. That was how angels Blessed. But the pair made something that was comparable to having a gun pressed to one's head look rather innocent.  _ Pleasant, _ even.

Eric came to realize that he was not necessarily afraid of Crowley-- not of waking him, nor upsetting him, nor being bitten if he ventured too close. No, Eric realized he was afraid of upsetting and venturing too close to  _ Aziraphale, _ who was clandestinely on strict sentry duty.  Crowley was not lying there because he had been placed under any divine spell. He had not fallen victim to an angelic bending of his already-conditional free will. He was lying there in earnest self-sedation, and contrary to what should have been natural, it was clear that he couldn’t possibly feel any more safe. 

If Crowley was that convinced of his current invincibility, then Eric had plenty of reason to fear getting too close to Aziraphale in that moment.

“B-bye Aziraphale,” he murmured, taking a few more steps away. But he couldn’t leave yet. He offered another, “Tell Crowley I said ‘bye’ too, when he wakes up,” before turning briskly to the door.

The angel's eyes lifted from his page, and he turned a brief glance to the hare’s retreating form. That simple request had reminded the angel how much of a child Eric resembled. Had  _ always  _ resembled. Imperfect, flawed, clumsy, and tiresome-- but  _ compassionate _ , without even knowing it.

“Eric.”

The hare stopped and hesitantly turned back, fearing he had done or said something he shouldn’t have. “Yes?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were on his book again, as if he’d never looked up from it. “I expect you to arrive here no later than eleven o’clock on weekends,” he informed. “Four o’clock on weekdays, after your school and work.”

His tone was curt and cold, but Eric heard the message beneath the callousness. The bookkeeper expected him at the shop  _ earlier  _ than he had been previously coming in. For longer hours. Every day.

“I have full confidence that you can manage that consistency.” Aziraphale concluded, a subtle question attached to the end of it.

“Yes. Yes, I can.” Eric grinned, accepting the task. He would be delighted to spend more time there, and Aziraphale would not have said anything if he did not want Eric there more often.

“Good.” Aziraphale expertly turned a page in his book with a finger of the hand that held it, as if his other hand were glued upon the demon lying in his lap. He dismissed the hare with a hollow, “Have a nice night.”

But Eric did not head for the door. He stayed where he was, across the room, massaging his fingers through his scarf, until he declared, “‘I would rather have a body full of scars and a head full of memories,’”

Aziraphale’s eyes lifted from his book a second time, and as he turned his head to glance to the hare, the demon finished his recitation, “‘Than a life of regrets and perfect skin.’”

“...That’s Atticus,” the bookkeeper identified with a layer of astonishment.

Eric flashed a brief smirk of pride, having successfully obtained the angel’s full attention. “I read some of his poems today.”

Aziraphale had not given the man any of Atticus’ poems. The demon had sought them out for himself.

Echoing his thoughts, Eric explained, “I was curious about him. He’s a recent poet, compared to all the others.”

“He is.” Aziraphale gently lowered his book face-down over the arm of the couch.

“What does that poem mean?” Eric inquired, his hands no longer fiddling with his scarf.

Aziraphale met his curious gaze with a gentle one of his own. “What do  _ you  _ think it means?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out for a few hours.” Eric slipped his hands in his pockets and took a few steps closer to the cove where the couch sat. But he didn’t venture too close, remaining by a bookshelf which he leaned against in much the same way Crowley had earlier. “I can’t imagine  _ why _ he would say something like that.” A glimmer of his frustration broke into his voice, but he remained placid.

“I can’t always give you the answers you seek, Eric. Sometimes you have to discover them yourself,” Aziraphale eased. “That is the... _complicated,_ _beauty_ of poetry,” he smiled fondly. “And... of life itself.”

Eric picked apart his words, appearing as if he wanted to be upset by them, but refraining. He turned a confused glare to the ground, mulling over the cryptic vagueness. Perhaps he shouldn’t have expected anything different from an angel.

“You will find what it means to you when you are meant to find it.” Aziraphale assured him, lifting his book from the arm of the couch to continue reading. “Don’t let it worry you.”

“Fine,” Eric grumbled. He rolled some dust underneath the toe of his shoe, then took a breath and looked up to ask. “Aziraphale. Will you come over for dinner?’

The angel looked up from his book a third time.

“I would like to show you how I’ve... gotten better,” Eric told him. He didn’t expect the man to agree, but the demon wished for nothing more. “At cooking.”

Aziraphale did not immediately answer, but after a silent sigh, he returned to his book. “Perhaps.”

“Tomorrow night?” Eric encouraged.

Aziraphale continued reading, and reached all the way down to the bottom of his page before he finally yielded, “Sure.”

Smugness tugged at the edges of Eric’s mischievous smile.

“Goodnight, Eric.”

The hare bit his lip to stop his grin from spreading, but it didn’t do much good. “Goodnight, Aziraphale.” He headed toward the door with a triumphant saunter. Quietly calling over his shoulder, he added, “And goodnight to Crowley too.” 

He left quietly, ensuring the door didn’t make any sort of creak or click as he carefully guided it shut behind him.

* * *

Aziraphale stared at a blank spot in his book, processing what he’d just committed himself to. What he’d just committed  _ both  _ of them to. Again. His fingers absent-mindedly shifted through Crowley’s hair as he thought of how he should best inform the demon of their scheduled dinner date when he awoke, and thought of how much stress it would cause his already-tormented mind.

His guilt and dread was somehow mixed with a sense of… something else. A feeling that everything was  _ truly  _ going to be alright. Aziraphale felt, for a moment, as if he should  _ look up. _ But he was too scared to. So after a sigh and a slight shift of his shoulders, he escaped into the words of his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen, 'When Doves Cry' by Prince, and 'Love her Wild' by Atticus are not mine!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers. After finalizing the storyboard for this fic, it appears that this story is going to extend well beyond what I originally imagined for it, which is good news for those of you who never want this Tale to end, and bad news for those of you who do want it to just end already. I hope there are more of the former than the latter.
> 
> For those of you who fall into the latter category and have read as much as you can bear, you will have to be satisfied with the relatively happy open-ended ending of Part 1, or-- if you're sticking through this for another dozen chapters-- a much more happy open-ended ending of Part 2. 
> 
> For those of you who are here with me all the way through this fic, I hope you are all eventually satisfied with the true (still happy, I promise, despite the emotional roller coaster I am about to take you through) ending of Part 3.


End file.
